


time is running out, and we’re running with it.

by potterplants



Category: Dunkirk (2017), Dunkirk (2017) RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterplants/pseuds/potterplants
Summary: or alternatively, the one where harry is a famous pop star, and fionn is an up-and-coming actor who’s not so much into the fame but into harry, and somehow they’re meant to make it work.





	1. Chapter 1

After the whirlwind that was the last couple months, Fionn was glad to be back at his flat, where his sheets were still rumpled in a ball on his bed from the last time he was in and the coffee leftover in his mug had long ago gone bad and now penetrated the stale air. Even though he had been back in the UK for a while now, he had been staying at a friend’s closer to the theater for rehearsals. The last week had been spent dreaming about his own bed, his own space. Where he could go back to a time before all of this and get a fix of normalcy.

  
He set his bags down on his lumpy couch and went into the kitchen area. He busied himself with cleaning up, emptying the dishwasher and collecting all of the crumbs that littered his counters with a used dishrag. He supposed he ought to start the wash but that meant unpacking his suitcases, and he wasn’t ready for that just yet. Instead, he grabbed the packages that his neighbor had kept for him and started going through the junk, the bills, and the scripts that his agent had sent for him. He had a couple things lined up already—small things that weren’t too much of a commitment—but he had yet to find the Next Big Thing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already peaked, that this was it for him. For Christ’s sake, he met the bloody _prince_ a couple weeks ago. He worked with _Christopher fucking Nolan_. Actors that he looked up to knew his name now. His face was plastered all over magazines. Reviews were talking about his future, his talent. Fans were starting to recognize him on the streets, asking him questions and for pictures that were surely floating around the Internet now, though he’d never see.

  
_It’s all starting now_ , someone had told him before with a smile that was surely meant to be reassuring but all Fionn saw was pity.

  
He had just gotten out of the bath—a girl had given him a bath bomb at the airport and he probably should have been more cautious but the peppermint smell was too enticing—when his phone rang from where he left it on the bed. Gripping his towel in one hand, he grabbed it and swiped his finger across the screen.

  
He balanced it between his ear and shoulder and went back into the loo. “’Ello?”

  
“Oi, it’s about bloody time,” Tom said, and Fionn could hear his friend’s smile on the other end. “Jack’s been trying to ring you. Are you coming tonight still? He said he’d stop by yours and you can ride together.”

  
“I just got out of the bath,” Fionn explained. “I’ll be there. Tell Jack I’ll meet him. I’m running behind.”

  
“Safety in numbers, mate,” Tom said ominously. “It’ll be a little…busy tonight.”

  
“Why? Expecting the queen?”

  
“Close. Harry’s coming.”

  
Fionn stilled. “I thought he was in the states.”

  
“Was. He just got back in.”

  
“Right. Okay.”

  
“Just come through the back, okay? Give Jack or Harry a ring when you arrive. Barry couldn’t make it so it’s just you lot. We’ll get a pint after.”

  
“Sure, mate.”

  
“Promise, Finley.”

  
“Tom—“ Abruptly, he was cut off by static and the sound of muffled voices and laughter as if Tom had put his hand over the receiver.

  
“Oops, I’ve got to go,” his friend said, the remnants of a laugh still in his voice. “I’ll see you soon. Bye!”

  
“Fine. Bye,” Fionn sighed before hanging up and setting his phone down carefully on the side of his sink. His hands might’ve been shaking, but it was fine. _He_ was fine. So fine.

  
Definitely fine.

 

* * *

 

He was decidedly not fine.

  
The last time he had seen Harry was the last premiere in New York, after which they had left Harry to come back to the U.K. He remembered the way Harry had smiled, the way his eyes lit up when the rest of them had to squint against the flashing cameras. He remembered the way Harry expertly floated through interviews and through fan pictures while Fionn could hardly keep it all together.

  
He remembered the way Harry's hand kept finding his lower back and his fingers kept brushing against his. How he held Fionn’s knee in the theater when the lights went down and Fionn was still too jumpy, adrenaline pumping through his veins from walking the carpet. He remembered the way he felt when Harry stood next to him, the buzzing in his head stopping. It seemed so at odds that this cartoon, loud and charming and electric, of a person was a source of comfort for Fionn now.

  
Maybe it was those nights on the beach when everyone else was filming or sleeping. Maybe it was that time spent in the water, holding onto one another while they waited for their turn to film. Maybe it was during the press tour when Harry always seemed to know when Fionn needed rescuing and swooped in to save him.

  
Maybe it was the way Harry always seemed to be looking at Fionn before Fionn looked at him, an emotion in his eyes that looked very close to Fionn’s undoing.

  
But Harry had been lonely then. He was in a different country surrounded by people who either didn't give a fuck about where he came from or did their best to pretend that they didn't. Harry craved affection. Fionn knew that now. He was projecting onto Harry what he wanted him to be when all Harry had ever been was a friend.

  
Harry, who was seen with a pretty model that weekend at a concert. Harry, who always joked about sordid times on set for a couple of cheap laughs. Harry, who could recognize the hearts in peoples' eyes when they looked at him and did his best to let them down gently, to remind them that he was everyone's and no ones at all.

  
So Fionn took a deep breath, dressed himself in his own clothes, and headed back out with his new mantra playing on a loop in his head:

  
_Do not fall for Harry Styles._

* * *

__

Tom hadn't been wrong—the theater was an absolute madhouse when he showed up.

  
Girls were surrounding the building, spilling out into the street with their cellphones in their hands and opened on their camera apps. Fionn pulled his hood lower over his head, grateful that the rain gave him the excuse to wear it. He had worn the fake glasses he nicked from Tom a few months ago, but now he felt silly, like he was trying to hide himself. What a prat they'd think he was.

  
He shot Jack a quick text to meet him around the back before he slipped between a couple girls that were too focused on the front doors to recognize him. The alleyway between the theater and the shop next door was mercifully empty. Even though he hadn't been noticed, he hurried down the narrow passageway, his feet barely dodging the puddles that were starting to form in the potholes now. He had just rounded the corner when the door swung open. Jack popped his head out, his strawberry blonde hair darker still from the rain.

  
"Took your time, did you?" he said before grabbing Fionn by the collar of his yellow jacket and hauling him inside.

  
Fionn shoved him off of him, grinning despite himself. "What’d you do then? Camp outside?"

  
"‘Course," he said. He shoved his thumb behind him before adding, "but then Styles had to show me up by bringing Tom the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen."

  
A hand clamped down on Jack's shoulder, the familiar cross tattoo winking at Fionn. "Don’t worry. I signed your name on the card, love."

  
Jack rolled his eyes, but he was grinning now, too, his eyes crinkling endearingly. "Doesn’t matter. We all know Tom just wanted Fionn here."

  
Harry pouted. " _Heeey_. I flew overnight to get here on time."

  
"Yeah, we all know that means nothing seeing as you run on four hours of sleep, you annoying twat."

  
"Uh, who else showed up?" Fionn asked as he followed them further into the building. A lot of the casts' loved ones were back here, mixed in with a few other celebrities and press people. Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing to watch them—or to be fair, watch Harry, who didn't even seem to notice. He actually put on a collared shirt buttoned all the way up for the evening, a shocking sight considering what he usually wore. There was still a floral design embroidered on the cuffs but baby steps.

Jack waited until they were closer to the stage before answering, "Mark’s here. Cillian is going to the next show with the wife. I think some of Tom’s mates are in the audience too. Should we sit with them?"

  
"I'm sitting with Finley," Harry said, coming to stand directly beside Fionn. "So it's up to him."

"Gee thanks, mate," Fionn said, rolling his eyes when the corner of Harry’s mouth curved into a smirk. It was a known fact he found their wishy-washy behavior infuriating. No one could make a decision for dinner and then they'd end up sitting in a hotel room for hours trying to decide, just to end up ordering room service because everything had closed. It usually meant he came up with every decision to avoid this, which annoyed him even more. "We can sit with Tom’s friends. I don't care as long as they're good seats."

  
When they walked down the hallway to where the main seating area was, Jack leading the way as always, Harry leaned in closer to Fionn, nearly shoving him into the wall.

  
His breath was warm on his hair.

  
"I think I could find you a good seat, Finley."

 

* * *

__

If Tom did a good job, Fionn had no idea.

He told himself he'd come back another night, come back to all the nights even if he had to start paying, to make up for what an absolute shit head he had been. Instead of watching tom, he was laser focused on every time harry brushed up against him or shifted closer. Every time he opened his mouth to breathe, to laugh, to cheer. If he went off of Harry's reactions alone, he'd say Tom did a phenomenal job.

  
Backstage, Harry was the first to greet Tom with a dazzling grin and a big hug, keeping his arm slung over his shoulders the entire time Tom accepted congratulations from his other guests. Everyone wanted to touch him, to tell him how great he was, and Tom took it all in with a humble smile like a seasoned pro. When he finally made it to Fionn, who was fine with waiting in the back, Harry had disappeared and the smile was gone with him.

  
"What’s wrong?" he asked immediately.

  
"Nothing. When’s the next show?"

  
"Two nights from now. Don’t tell me you weren't paying attention."

  
"I was tired is all," he lied. His eyes scanned the faces for Harry’s, but he couldn’t find him. "I’ll make it to the next one."

  
Tom’s mouth thinned. He was silent for a long while, staring at him, before saying, "I thought you were over that."

  
Fionn’s brows furrowed. "Over what?"

  
But Tom was shaking his head, looking away. "Nothing. Let’s go to the pub. Harry’s buying the first round."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a little out of practice with writing 1D fanfic--actually I'm a little out of practice with writing fanfiction in general. I really wanted to write these two though, so I hope it's okay.  
> More to come.  
> My tumblr is mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com if you wanted to pop by for a chat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. I started writing this after I posted the first chapter…but then I accidentally deleted it. So. Here we are. Part 2 of Chapter 2.

           The pub was already filled to the brim with people, but Fionn wasn’t surprised seeing as it was a Saturday night in West London. Someone—probably Tom—had the foresight of calling ahead to let the owner know who would be coming in, and the lads were squashed in the back of the room at a table big enough for eight but was currently sat twelve.

            It wasn’t exactly what Fionn would call a pub-crawl. For him, a proper pub-crawl meant popping into whatever pub was closest with a group of mates, ordering whatever beer was on tap and cheap because it didn’t matter when they planned on just drinking to get pissed anyway. It was singing until the entire pub was joining in or arguing loudly about whatever sport matched the season until the owner kicked them out and then they moved on to the next one.

            Wedged between Harry and Jack, Fionn nursed a bottle of beer that was most definitely warm by this point and just contributed to his bad mood. Across from him, Tom’s friend Martin was asking Jack about the biopic he was about to start promoting. About half an hour ago, Harry moved closer to him so his shoulder was practically over Fionn’s, and Fionn made little effort to move.

            Yawning, he lifted his eyes and looked right into the eye of a camera. A girl sitting nearby had her phone pointed at her friend but it was off. Instead of pointing at her friend’s face, it was pointed a little over her shoulder, partially towards their table. Discreetly, Fionn tried to move further away from Harry, his head spinning.

            Under the table, Harry’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, stopping his movement. “You alright?”

            “That girl,” he mumbled, nodding towards their table. “Her phone—“

            Harry turned to where Fionn indicated, his brows furrowed. “Alright, she looked away.”

            “I thought those rumors about your magical powers were false.”

            “Eye contact does nearly as well as magic. Shame helps even more.”

            “Ah. The more you know.”

            “You’ll learn,” Harry said with a lazy grin. He brought his pint to his lips, and Fionn had to avert his eyes. There was something awfully vulgar about Harry’s mouth—too pink, too full. Perpetually shiny. “It’ll be fine. I’ll take a photo with them before we leave.”

            Fionn’s forehead creased in confusion. “Why?”

            “What do you mean ‘why’?” Harry chuckled, a low, rumbling thing that Fionn could feel all the way to his toes since Harry was pressed against him. “It’s the least I could do.”

            “What?” he said. “No. No, Harry, it’s not.”

            “’Course it is. They do so much for me as it is.”

            “And you don’t? You act like you didn’t just put out an album and announce two separate tours.” 

            They stared at each other, neither wanting to open their mouths and continue the argument—Fionn because he didn’t want to waste his breath, and Harry because he didn’t like to make waves.

            Harry cleared his throat. “So you _are_ keeping up with me then.”

            Rolling his eyes, Fionn said, “It’s hard not to. You’re bloody everywhere, mate.”

            “Don’t act like you don’t like seeing my ugly mug on buses.”

            Fionn squirmed in his seat. Maybe he did a _little_ bit. “Not likely.”

            Harry took another drink, his smirk visible over the rim of the beer mug. He used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. “I’ll probably head out soon. Flying back to LA in the morning.”

            “Oh. Right.”

            “Will you come to one of my shows? Make the trip to LA in a month? I’ll fly you out. You can stay round mine if you want.”

            Fionn snorted. “Right. Yeah. Sure.”

            Harry’s mouth pulled into a frown, his hand rubbing the underside of his jaw. “Why do you say it like that?”

            “Like what?”

            “Like a joke.”

            “Be real, Harry.”

            “I am,” he insisted. “Jack’s been ribbing me for ages to get him tickets, even told reporters. And then Tom’s going to work it out in his schedule—“

            Oh.

            He felt like a complete and absolute twat thinking that the invite extended to just him.

            Suddenly the room felt too hot. He was too cramped. The beer was too shit. His skin was too itchy. “Move,” he said, shoving against Jack’s leg until he moved. He heard Harry say his name, but he didn’t stop, ignoring him, ignoring the fans that got up when they saw him on his feet. He felt bad, but if he allowed anyone to take his picture, he knew what it’d look like—the embarrassment, the rejection that wasn’t really a rejection at all, written all over his face.

            Thankfully, the loos were not gender specific and single person only, and he locked himself into the one at the end of the hallway, his shoulder blades bouncing off of the door when he slumped against the wood. He ran his fingers through his hair, only to get them stuck in the tangled curls that fell over his forehead.

            “Fuck,” he breathed out. Laughed humorlessly. “Fucking, Christ.”

            “No, it’s Harry.”

            Fionn startled, nearly choking on his own spit. The handle jiggled, hitting Fionn’s hip. He unlocked the door and pulled it open; he barely had time to move out of the way before Harry was pushing him backwards and slipping inside.

            He flipped the lock behind him.

            “What was that?” Harry asked.

            “It was too hot,” he said. “Too many—people. I don’t know. I’ll meet you back out there.”

            “Don’t do that.”

            “Do what?”

            “Push me away,” Harry said. They were standing so close that the toes of their shoes were pressed against one another’s. Fionn could smell the mint and beer on Harry’s breath. “Why did you get mad?”

            “I’m not.”

            “You’re a terrible liar, Fionn.”

            “Fionn? Not Finley?” he asked because he couldn’t help himself.

            Possibly because he didn’t want to be having this conversation in the bathroom of a pub right now, too.

            But Harry’s mouth didn’t twitch into a smile. “Talk to me.”

            Fionn made an uncommitted sound in the back of his throat, turning his back on Harry. He flipped on the tap, running his sticky fingers under the lukewarm water. Maybe if he ignored him, he’d go away. Maybe that was the secret of getting rid of a Harry. Close your eyes and pretend he’s not there and—

            Arms wrapped around Fionn’s waist, locking him in place. He could feel him pressed against his back, his chin propped up on his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, Harry was watching him in the dirty mirror, leaning forward to turn off the water.

            “Why were you mad?” he asked again, lowering his voice.

            He gulped. “I—I thought you were inviting just me. To LA, I mean.”

            Harry’s eyes widened, just a fraction but noticeable enough to Fionn, who spent an embarrassing amount of time studying his face.

            Idly, he wondered if people could see it in the film—if they speculated whether Fionn’s character was meant to be attracted to Harry or if he was meant to hate Harry. He wished he could tell them it was a little bit of both, that every day he had to decide what it would be. That every day felt like starting over.

            When the silence continued to stretch between them, Fionn forced a tight smile. “It’s nothing, mate. I was just being—“

            “Just give me a minute to process, yeah?” He turned Fionn around in his arms, their chests bumping against each other’s. Harry’s hand tangled in the hair at the back of Fionn’s neck, while the other pulled off Fionn’s glasses and stuffed them in his pocket.

It was rare that he was this close to Harry—like that time in the grounded boat when Harry was supposed to be yelling at him, supposed to convince him to fight for survival instead of morality. But he was supposed to be cowering then, not staring into his eyes.

            Not noticing that there was a ring of yellow around the irises or the smattering of freckles across his nose.

            He lifted his hand to Harry’s jaw, running his thumb along the strong curve of his jawline. Harry stayed still, a feat for someone who was constantly moving, and his eyes bore into Fionn’s as Fionn traced his thumb along the bumps and curves of his face.

            His lips were even pinker this close.

            “It’s not bloody fair,” he found himself saying. “Why couldn’t you be ugly?”

            Harry smiled, and Fionn was blessed with those horrible dimples. He bit down on his lower lip, stifling a groan.

            “It’s just a face, mate,” Harry said. A little sadly, Fionn would notice later that night, when he was thinking about this moment in bed.

            “When you have a face like mine, a face like yours is—“ He shook his head, smiling a little. “S’not fair.”

            “ _Heey_ ,” Harry said. “No one has a better smile than yours. I could write songs about that smile.”

            Fionn rolled his eyes at the cheesiness, his cheeks flushing. He tried to turn his head, but Harry caught his chin, keeping him in place. Fionn opened his mouth to protest when he made the mistake of looking into Harry’s eyes again.

            He _saw_ the decision being made—probably even before Harry realized what he was doing.

            Harry’s mouth was surprisingly gentle against Fionn’s, none of that teeth mashing, face smashing nonsense you see in the movies. He was hesitant, like he was asking a question only Fionn had the answer to. One hand was still holding Fionn’s chin, and the other rested at his waist now, his fingers curling into his soft flesh.

            He pulled back a bit, his teeth catching Fionn’s lower lip. Tugging gently. “Okay?”

            “Okay,” Fionn said, his voice hoarse. He refused to let himself look down, to stare at the way Harry’s pants were starting to become terribly bent out of shape.

            “I could never tell,” Harry continued, his lips brushing across Fionn’s jaw. A shiver zipped up Fionn’s spine. “If you wanted me or hated me for it. I spent the entire press tour trying to get your attention. I spent hours trying to figure out ways to get you to smile for me.”

           The secret was this wasn’t their first kiss.

           He didn’t think Harry had remembered, but he knew now that he did. There had been a night on the beach towards the end of filming. The two of them, sitting by the shore, sand still in their hair and salt on their skin. It was soft and quick—so quick that Fionn spent countless nights wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.

          And then he had to stop thinking about it all together because it was clear that Harry hadn’t spared it a second thought.

            “You were such a dork,” Fionn said, smiling, remembering how ridiculous Harry could be when he got into a rhythm. “The jokes you made. Dear God.”

            “All my best stuff,” Harry said, pleased. When Fionn laughed, that earned him another kiss on his neck, Harry’s nose brushing his Adam’s apple. “Only the best for you.”

            Fondness spread throughout Fionn, settling in his chest next to his heart. “We can’t stay in here.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because someone might _overhear_.”

            “Prude,” Harry teased. His hand trailed down to Fionn’s waistband, tugging at the shirt Fionn had carefully tucked in. The sink dug into Fionn’s back but he didn’t mind it; Harry was pressed all the way against him, his thigh pushed between Fionn’s legs. A low groan escaped his mouth when Harry rolled his hips a little, rubbing against Fionn’s growing erection.

            He was a 15-year-old boy again, fumbling around in a closet.

            With trembling hands, he worked the button of Harry’s slacks through the hole and tugged down. Harry’s erection sprung free, and if Fionn was a musician, he might’ve thought something flowery and poetic about it— _because of course even his_ dick _was pretty_ —but he wasn’t a musician and he hated flowery poetry.

            Harry groaned into Fionn’s mouth when Fionn gripped his arse in his hands like he’d always wanted to do, urging him closer. His slacks were still bunched around his thighs, and Fionn pulled them the rest of the way down before wrapping his fingers around Harry.

           His thumb rubbed a circle into the tip of his penis, catching some of the pre cum that leaked out. He started pumping his hand until Harry was panting, clutching onto Fionn’s shoulders, his forehead pressed against Fionn’s.

          “So good,” Harry groaned. His hands snacked under Fionn’s shirt, warm against his skin. He tried not to think about how soft he was—especially compared to the people Harry usually spent time with. “So, so good.”

         Fionn’s mouth twitched. “Oh yeah?”

         “Don’t be a brat.”

         Harry’s nose nudged the side of Fionn’s face, and he turned into those lips again.

         Their kisses turned hungrier, like they had been starved for contact, and maybe they had been. It had been ages since the last time Fionn had been kissed like this, like the world depended on it. Like nothing was more important than this. He felt Harry’s tongue slide against his, and he would’ve melted right then and there if Harry weren’t holding him up.

         “I could kiss you for ages,” Fionn mumbled against his mouth. He feared he was growing an oral fixation thanks to Harry, but he didn’t have any extra energy to think too hard about it. “Stay just like this—“

            Abruptly, Harry took a step back, causing Fionn to stumble forward. He ran his fingers through his hair; it all fell to one side in a lump, but for once, Fionn didn’t find that endearing like he usually did. He said his next words slowly, as if he needed to say each word carefully so Fionn would understand, “You know I’m leaving, Fionn.”

            “I—I know you are,” he said quickly. His mind was like goo, his brain leaking through his ears. “I just meant—well, the tour—you invited me—“

            “Yeah, but that’s—well, that’s a month from now.”

            “I know that. The timing is just off, that’s all.” He felt like he was begging now, but all of his dignity went out the door when he was about to get on his knees by the toilet.

            “I just—I don’t usually do—um.” He tugged on his bottom lip, the light catching one of his silver rings. He didn’t seem to mind or notice that he was still hanging out of his pants. “There will be people in LA. _Different_ people. We’ll constantly be watched. We can’t just—just slip away—“

            “That’s fine, Harry, I didn’t—“

“We can’t go public with this. No one could ever find out.”

            If he had slapped him, he would’ve been less surprised.

            “Okay,” he said flatly. “Well. Right then. I’ll just be going.”

            Harry’s eyes widened. His lips were red and swollen—because of me, he thought to himself. “Wait, that sounded bad. That’s not what I meant. That is definitely _not_ what I—“

            “Doesn’t matter if it’s what you meant,” Fionn said, stuffing his shirt back in his jeans. “It’s what you said.”

            “Fucking hell—don’t do this, Fionn.”

            “Oh stop.” His voice was shaking now, but not from nerves or anxiety like usual. “’Don’t do this’? What, don’t hold you accountable, Harry? You know what, I’m real tired of you putting everything on me. As if I’m the unreasonable one.”

            Finally, Harry shoved himself back into his pants, fumbling with the zipper of his slacks. “I’m not good with this sort of thing, Fionn. I can’t give you what you want from me—“

            “I DON’T WANT ANYTHING FROM YOU!” Fionn exploded, throwing his hands in the air. “For _fuck’s_ sake. When have I _ever_ asked you for anything? I’m not one of those—those shallow social climbers that you surround yourself with—“

            Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Then what are you, Fionn?”

            “I’m nothing,” he said. “Good luck on your tour.”

            Fionn pulled open the door and walked out, leaving Harry standing there alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting on ao3 is still the most distressing thing for me at the moment so apologies that this looks different than the first chapter.  
> I was pretty nervous to post this one because like I said before I'm a little out of practice with writing this sort of stuff. Next chapter will be a bit of a time jump.  
> As always I'm over at mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3 was written with from the dining table x harry styles on repeat in the background. enjoy.

Two Months Later

            A short monologue and a miniseries later, Fionn was finally due for a break.

            The past weeks had been relentless, but he needed every second of it just to keep sane. Most people didn’t like to keep a ruthless schedule, but its all Fionn knew in his professional life now. He liked waking up before the sun rose, and he liked falling into bed at the end of the long day, both his body and mind exhausted. He had a little time before he had to start promoting the show, and he planned on spending every second in London.

            He hadn’t gone to LA.

            Of course he saw the pictures Jack and Tom and Barry had sent him. (He might have deleted the video Tom sent of one of Harry’s songs, but they didn’t know that.) They had done it so he wouldn’t feel left out, since he didn’t have it in him to explain why he wouldn’t be joining them. He came up with every excuse—shooting, auditions, and photo shoots—and pretended like he was upset he couldn’t go.

          To keep up with the act, he stayed in that WhatsApp group, every picture another knife in the gut, like a masochist.

            He would be lying if he said he didn’t still think about it, but he supposed it was the fact that he still thought about it that helped him sleep at night. At least it had meant something. At least he hadn’t thrown it all away for a passing fancy.

            It was just—he knew that _he_ hadn’t meant anything to _Harry_. He wasn’t sure anyone meant anything to Harry except for his family and the select few that managed to make it through the years. That alone never failed to make him feel like a complete idiot; he saw the way Harry dodged his old band mates’ calls and text messages. He saw how he acted at a party when someone tried to make plans with him for the future.

           The only thing that he planned meticulously for was his career.

            Some things didn’t mean the same thing to Harry. He could be with someone for a night, for a week, for a month, and go back to acting like nothing happened at all. Despite his better judgment, Fionn had fallen right into it just to be closer to him, to feel like he mattered even a little bit. He wouldn’t be the first or the last one to do so.

           In that bathroom, Harry saw something in Fionn that had him running. It had taken months, but Fionn no longer was embarrassed by the fact. He wouldn’t apologize for his feelings.

            He was just finished with letting them control him.

* * *

            This week Tom had arrived back in London after visiting his mum in Lancashire. There were many things that Fionn loved about Tom, but his incessant need to _plan_ something was not one of them. He’d been hinting that he wanted to get a meal together soon, but Fionn didn’t trust him to not try to get the boys back together for the night—especially lately when every other call seemed to be from Tom.

            He spread out on his new couch, the first and only thing he bought with his money. The windows on either side of his television console were still opened from earlier, but Fionn didn’t mind the chill. Bundled in a fisherman’s sweater and one of the fur throws his friend Georgia bought him for his birthday last year, Fionn settled in for a night of movies while London came alive outside his windows. Nights like these reminded him why he stayed in this area even though everyone told him to leave and find a flat in Primrose Hill or Chelsea.

          He liked the noises—his neighbors’ voices next door through the thin walls and the traffic outside. The car horns and dogs barking and the pianist that busks across the street. It reminded him that he was here, that he was alive.

          That his problems were probably smaller than he made them out to be.

           As a boy, he had an awful habit of being in his head too often about the littlest things. He’d spend hours in his room, wondering what Annie said when she turned to her friend and whispered something when Fionn walked in the room. Or whether or not he did a good enough job on his speech in class even though his teacher said he did fine. If he should listen to the kids in class and finally ask his parents for braces.

          Only his father seemed to recognize when he was doing it and would crouch down to his level and say, _you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Fionn my boy_. Except Dad wasn’t around anymore to bring him down to earth, and he couldn’t bare to go home where his father’s ghost walked the halls of his house, his memory haunting his mum.

         He was in the middle of watching Julia Roberts tell off a rude saleswoman when his intercom buzzed. His hand froze in the bowl of nuts that rested on his stomach. Tom wouldn’t have stopped by. He wanted Fionn to make an effort, but he’d never intrude on him, not when he knew how Fionn was.

        There was only one person who knew his address that wouldn’t care if Fionn were caught off guard or not.

        It was someone trying to sell him something, he told himself. It was a fan that found his address. It was a delivery man trying to—

       The intercom buzzed again.

       Hauling himself off of the couch, he dusted his hands off on his jeans and trudged over to the door. Taking a deep breath, he pressed down on the button. “’Ello?”

       “So you _are_ alive then.”

       He let out the breath he had been holding, ignoring the little throb in his heart because this was _good_ news. “Jack. Hey. I’ll buzz you up.”

       “Nah, I’ll wait down here. We’re going to Tom’s new flat. He’s having a housewarming party, remember?”

       Guilt washed over him like a bucket of water. “Oh. No. I didn’t know.”

       There was a pause, long enough that Fionn was sure Jack had just left.

       “Hurry up then,” Jack said suddenly, his voice gruff. “You’ll buy him an expensive bottle of wine to make up for it. Be down in five, Whitehead!”

* * *

 

            Neither of them said a word as they walked from Fionn’s place down to the tube. He knew that Jack disapproved of his behavior sometimes. Jack respected transparency, which was why they got on so well usually, but he also despised selfishness. Jack was the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Fionn was the kind of guy who would rather pop down to the shop so you can get a new one.

            It didn’t make one man better than the other, but Fionn couldn’t shake the feeling that Jack was judging him sometimes. Because he could be closed off and surly and cruel when he wasn’t in the right mood. Because it took him time to warm up to someone, and even longer to decide to keep you around, instead of welcoming everyone with open arms and a witty quip like Jack did.

            They were polar opposites, but they were friends, and Fionn was reminded of that fact when Jack hooked his arm over his narrow shoulders.

            “I don’t know why you’ve been so distant lately,” he said as they walked up the stairs to Tom’s new building, “but I’m here if you want to talk.”

            Fionn said nothing, not trusting himself to open his mouth and not blurt out what had been hanging over him these past few months, so he simply gripped the bottom of Jack’s jumper and let him guide him inside.

            No one could ever say Tom didn’t have impeccable taste, Fionn thought wryly when they were let in. His new flat boasted an impressive view of the Thames outside of his private balcony, the doors of which were left open. Different types of plants in fancy pots were spread throughout the flat, on shelves and in random corners and hanging from the ceiling. One of the other walls was adorned with prints and art pieces that Tom had been collecting since he moved to London. His couch, dark purple and velvet, was already filled with Tom’s friends, some of which Fionn had become acquainted with. He waved before following Jack into the kitchen area, where bottles of wine and booze lined the concrete countertops.

            He set the bottle of wine—a month’s pay at his old job at the coffee house—down next to a bottle of champagne. He hoped Tom liked it. He had no idea what the differences were, and Jack hadn’t been much help either, especially when he wondered over to the crisps section.

           “Good choice. That’s an excellent brand.” Fionn whipped around and found Harry Styles leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. The Rolling Stones shirt he wore was even holier than it was before, and Fionn could just make out the outline of his butterfly tattoo through the thin fabric.

          Instinctively, he took a half step backwards. “Oh. Well, brilliant. I wasn’t sure.”

          “Never was a wine drinker,” Harry said, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. He gestured to the other opened bottles of various liquors. His fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle of Hendricks’. “Want a drink?”

          “I’m good,” he said, though he probably could use a G & T right about now. The fact that Harry still knew his favorite gin didn’t faze him. _Not at all_. “Thanks though. Where’s Tom?”

          Harry’s forehead crinkled slightly, but his smile didn’t falter. “Left him in the bedroom. He’ll be out soon.”

           _Left him in the bedroom_.

          He forced a smile in return. “Shite host.”

          “He’s trying his best,” Harry said. He lifted the glass tumbler he had in his hand, half full of a ruby red colored drink. “I also might’ve spilled a little on his shirt.”

          When his shoulders loosened, he instantly felt awful. Why should he be bothered that they were in Tom's room? “Such an absolute klutz, Styles.”

         “You know me,” Harry said, his eyes flickering to somewhere behind his head before going back to Fionn’s face. “I saw that monologue you did. It was amazing, Fionn.”

          His face warmed. “Thanks. Heard your, uh—the tour went well then?”

         “Yeah, it was absolutely insane. I, um, would have loved to have had you there.”

         “Yeah. Well. Work, you know.”

         Harry’s eyes searched his face, two little worry lines between his brows. He set his glass down. “Can we talk?”

        “We are talking.”

        “Okay. Can we talk in private?”

        Fionn stared at him. “No.”

       “’No’,” Harry repeated, as if he wasn’t sure what the word meant. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it had been long enough since the last time someone said no and meant it to him that he forgot the word actually carried weight.

       Before he could force the topic, Fionn turned on his heels and walked out of the kitchen, his heart pounding in his ears. Begging him to turn around. But he had no intention of turning around, and if he had to hazard a guess, Harry didn’t expect him to.

       He went down the small hallway off of the main living area. There were three doors, one of which was opened and revealed a white and black tiled bathroom. Taking a chance, he knocked on the door at the end and waited, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

      The door swung open, revealing a slightly disheveled Tom.

      “Hey,” he greeted. His hair was an even brighter shade of orange, like he had just had it done again recently. He was wearing socks with no shoes, and for whatever reason, that made Fionn smile.

      Looking at his friend, he realized that unfurling sensation in his chest was relief. He missed Tom—far more than he cared to admit.

     “I bought you wine to make up for how much of a twat I’ve been,” Fionn said.

     “Jack’s idea?”

     “Yeah.”

     Tom clasped his hand on Fionn’s shoulder. “Good man. Let’s get pissed.”

* * *

       At one point in the night, Fionn remembered one of Tom’s mates from school mixing him a drink and shoving it in his hand, laughing about a joke that Fionn didn’t catch. From that point on, all of Fionn’s drinks were handed to him from one person or another. He didn’t need to even think about getting a new one before another appeared in front of his face, the ice clanking together and the condensation spilling onto his lap.

       He ended up on that velvet couch next to Tom, who was opening up the presents that his friends bought him—pots and crystal bowls and mugs with his initials on them in fancy script. He nearly dropped an expensive pair of coasters when he tried to hug the person who bought them for him, but Fionn was there to catch them in time. The room exploded in cheers, crying out his name like he had just made the game-winning goal.

      A girl sat at one of the dining chairs tried to catch Fionn’s eye, smiling pleasantly. He tried not to notice that she didn’t have any dimples or that her eyes were more hazel than green. He tried not to think about the fact that his heart didn’t stutter or that his stomach didn’t tie itself in knots. He told himself that it didn’t mean anything, that it was probably healthier that he wasn’t a bundle of nerves when she got to her feet, not breaking eye contact with him, as she walked out to the balcony.

      Really, he didn’t think about anything at all when he shut the door behind him, the cool London air blanketing over him. Her fingers were freezing when she reached out for his, pulling him closer. Her smile was slyer now, more mischievous. Fionn had to swallow around the lump in his throat because it wasn’t _his_ smile, the one that was a precursor to a bad joke or terrible pun.

      When he cupped her cheek and kissed her, he felt nothing except that ache deep in his bones.

        _Wrong, wrong, wrong_ , his soul seemed to sing.

        They returned to the party, hand in hand, with pink cheeks and swollen lips. No one seemed to note their absence, too wasted to care or spare the attention. It ended up being for the best—this way he didn’t have to pretend with Tom or Jack, and he didn’t have to reveal that he didn’t even know her name, embarrassing her and proving just how much of an arse he was that he didn’t even think to ask.

        She kissed his cheek before going off to where her friends were, standing by the front door like they were waiting for her so they could leave. He smiled after her, relieved that she didn’t ask for his number or to see him again.

        The acting he did at work was nothing compared to the acting he had to do every day. The reviews and the accolades weren’t the things that told him he was good at what he did—the fact that no one seemed to notice he was slowly crumbling inside told him everything he needed to know. When he was sure his face was doing a passable impression of satisfaction, he pulled his gaze away, rubbing his bottom lip between his forefinger and thumb.

        Across the room, Harry was staring at him—his own expression pretty damn close to hurt.

        Suddenly, Fionn couldn’t breathe.

        He didn’t know if it was the look in Harry’s eyes or the reality of what just happened crashing down on him, but he did know that he needed to leave. To somehow grow wings. To get out of here

        (out of his own skin).

         Shouldering his way through Tom’s friends, he didn’t say goodbye to either Tom or Jack before he made his way to the front door. Fortunately, he never bothered to take off his coat, and his house keys and phone were still in the inside pocket.

        Now Fionn did what he did best.

        He ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so it's my absolute refusal to make any OC's for this fic that is the reason behind why these boys are hanging out with one another so often. otherwise fionn would be emo by himself a whole heck of a lot more. 
> 
> do i believe the cast hang out like this? realistically, no. do i wish with every bit of my heart that they do? yes. very much so. 
> 
> also i didn't purposefully make fionn eat nuts (real fans will know what i'm talking about) but it tickled me when i realized what i did. 
> 
> anyway, sorry this got wordy. i hope y'all are still enjoying the fic. come over to mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com and we can chat about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is most definitely one of my favorite chapters so far, and I did a very speedy edit of it because I wanted to share. Written whilst drinking a massive Coke Slurpee. 
> 
> Enjoy.

             He ended up changing his number.

            His manager had been on him for ages to get a second phone for business, but Fionn resisted because he didn’t want to become That Person. It was the perfect excuse: two new phones, two new numbers.

             A fresh start.

             It wasn’t even that he was avoiding _someone_ —that would mean _someone_ was _trying_ to reach him. No, it was the radio silence that made Fionn fidgety. His eyes constantly shifting to his phone, hoping it would light up with a notification even though he would hear it first. Rolling over in bed in the middle of the night, grabbing his phone to check if he missed a call when he was sleeping.

            Guilt was an insidious sort of thing.

            Pride was even worse.

            He was never going to extend that olive branch even though he knew he needed to. It wasn’t in his character. When Tom called him the next morning, asking what happened to him, he made some excuse about an early audition and begged off.

            Things were slowly starting to change, and he didn’t know how to stop it. Eventually, Tom stopped calling all together. The last time Fionn messaged him was to give him the new number on his personal phone.

            Tom hadn’t replied.

            And then Jack stopped coming round to drag him to a movie or to the pub where they sat in silence (only occasionally grunting at one another in lieu of an actual conversation). He didn’t realize how he counted on these things until it was too late and they were gone.

            He decided to actually go to some auditions since he was constantly using them as an excuse. Turned out, it was far more embarrassing to pretend that you kept getting looked over for roles than actually admitting why you didn’t want to go somewhere in the first place. He ended up getting offered two different roles for projects he was partially interested in. They weren’t another Christopher Nolan movie nor would he be apart of another blockbuster any time soon, but he could work in London and that’s all he cared about.

            A part of him, however small, wondered if it would do him good to leave the country for a little. Not to go to Ibiza or wherever else people his age were heading to now—he wasn’t becoming a new _person_ —but to look for work outside of the UK. He went as far as telling his agent and manager that he would be willing to look at more scripts for projects overseas, but he hadn’t worked up the courage to actually read through any yet.

            One of them was unpackaged in front of him at his breakfast table. The directors were a team he genuinely enjoyed watching movies from, and he actually had them on the list of dream directors he made when he was fourteen. He’d be auditioning for the lead, and the shoot was three months, which was longer for a lower budget film like this.

            It also meant three months in LA if he got it.

            Even longer depending on pre-production. He had never been out of the UK that long.

            This felt like something—something larger than Fionn wanting to make changes in his career.

            He just wasn’t ready to admit what it all meant yet.

 

* * *

 

            One of the first things he learned when he touched down in LA was that the fans were very different here than they were in London. For starters, they all seemed to know that he was arriving that day and a small group—large enough to make him consider turning around and forcing the pilot to take him home—was waiting for him outside the gates. He hadn’t had anyone with him. The only times he’d ever had a bodyguard was during premieres but those felt different.

            Everyone was calling his name, and some even tried to reach out and grab his jumper. He forced a tight, closed mouth smile but didn’t stop for any pictures as he made his way through the airport. He was actually glad he agreed to get picked up by a car, as per his manager’s request. He’d never argue with his team again. If they wanted to rent an expensive black car to rescue him, he’d let them from now on without a word.

            He was booked to stay in a suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt, something that didn’t fail to make him unnerved every time he thought about it. The first Oscars were held in this building. _Catch Me If You Can_ was shot in these halls. Charlie Chaplin and Errol Flynn stayed here. He was resting his head in actual Hollywood history; it shocked him just how amazed he actually was by it all.

            Throwing on a cap, he patted his pockets to make sure he had his room key, wallet, and phone before heading out. One of the lads his agent looked after was auditioning for the same film, and he planned on meeting him for lunch to fight off the jetlag that was looming over him. Surprisingly, he was looking forward to it. It felt like ages since Fionn spoke to someone closer to his age instead of only interacting with the people who looked after him and his mum every Sunday during those (painful) phone chats.

            Thankfully, no one seemed to know where he was staying, and he opted out of getting an Uber so he could walk to the restaurant they planned on meeting at. It was an hour walk, but he was used to walking. There was something therapeutic about it now for him, and he figured it wouldn’t kill him to start easing a little more exercise into his routine.

            He saw Robert through the window with his head bent over what was probably the script. He arrived a day earlier than Fionn, and his skin already had a golden tinge to it. Fionn tugged the sleeves of his jumper down, hiding his own pale arm.

            “Hey, man,” Fionn greeted as he sat down across from him. The restaurant reminded him a bit of the London cafes back home, boasting a vegan friendly menu and a rather large clear fridge next to the queue with an impressive display of bottled juices. He usually avoided these cafes.

            Robert pushed his script to the side in favor of his latte, the leaf pattern still in tact. “How was the flight in?”

            “Uneventful. Seen any sights yet?” This was Robert’s first time in LA according to their agent.

            “Hiked up to the Griffith Observatory,” he said. That explained the tan. “Maybe we could get a drink later. If you’d be, um, interested. In that. In doing that. I mean.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Fionn said, smiling at the waitress when she handed him a menu. “Thank you.”

            “I’ll come check up on you in a few,” she promised, knocking her fist against the table twice before going over to the couple by the kitchen door.

            “How’s the coffee?” Fionn asked him as he scanned the menu. Most of it was salad or various vegetables mashed and diced up to put on top of wheat toast. Maybe he’d just get a coffee now and popping into one of those corner stores on his way back to the hotel. He’d get room service, but he was pretty sure the bill would go to his manager, and he didn’t quite feel comfortable making his team pay for his lunch.

            Robert shrugged. “Dunno. I don’t drink coffee.”

            Fionn set down his menu. “Then why do you have one?”

            “That table sent one over,” he said, nodding over to a table nearby with a few kids their age. “I didn’t have the heart to say no.”

            “You think they recognize you?” he asked.

            “I suppose if they watch BBC miniseries dramas and pay attention to the nameless, young butler in the back,” Robert said dryly.

            He felt himself smiling. “You never know. Strapping, young lad like you.”

            “Sod off,” Robert said, dropping his eyes to his lap. His ears were bright pink. “So is this the first movie you’ve done since Dunkirk? I couldn’t imagine coming down from that high. Can’t imagine how intense that must’ve been.”

            “It was, uh, pretty full on, yeah,” he said. “I’m excited to get back to it though.”

            Robert propped his elbows up on the table, leaning forward. “I’d be ruined for life. I mean, Harry bloody Styles in your first film. I’m obsessed with his album. Doesn’t hurt that he’s fit though, right?”

            Fionn felt close to vomiting. This was why he didn’t make friends. “Oh. Ah. Yeah. I guess—“

            “I went to his Radio City show last month. Incredible. He has a new song coming out already that’s not even from the album. He’s like a machine.”

            “He does have an, um, incredible work ethic.”

            This time, when he said he was going to head back because of an early morning audition, he was only half lying. Sure, he didn’t need over fifteen hours of sleep, but Robert didn’t know that. Or maybe he did and had the good grace not to call him out on it.

            Fleetingly, he considered grabbing a pack of cigarettes at the shop. Just to have something to do with his hands and maybe get rid of some of the nervous energy that had started in the restaurant and now followed him back to the hotel. But he wasn’t a smoker, and he probably was self-sabotaging himself in the teeth department if he picked up the habit, so he just grabbed a sandwich and a couple of bottles of water instead.

            When he got in, he noticed the maids left extra towels on his bed. Slipping his shoes off, he placed his food on the desk before grabbing the towels to put into the bathroom. Before he walked back out into the bedroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror; he didn’t have the time to take a shower when he got off the plane before meeting Robert, so it was well over twelve hours since he last had one. His hair, usually greasy to be fair, wasn’t doing him any favors and was sticking up straight up in the back. He had grown out his Dunkirk haircut ages ago, which meant the strands were shaggy and unruly on their best day, so he usually didn’t even bother to run a comb through his hair anymore. His poor comb wouldn’t last a second through this barnet.

           His eyes were bloodshot, and the bags under his eyes were more like bruises against his stark white skin. It was as if his features had been blurred. As if someone had been told what he looked like, and this was the rough sketch of that description.

            He looked terrible—worse than terrible.

            He ran his hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. He’d have a bath, he told himself. Maybe he’d use the complimentary facemask he saw on the bathroom counter. He’d Google a good barber nearby and get a trim. He thought the bellhop told him there was a balcony behind the thick, cream curtains. He’d sit out there in the morning before his audition and catch some sun. A little color probably wouldn’t hurt, even if that color were pink.

            Satisfied with this plan, he fell into the king sized bed and made the worst decision he’s made in a long time, which was saying a lot considering:

            He gave into the jetlag and fell right to sleep.

 

* * *

 

            The digital clock on the nightstand read 3 AM.

            He hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed—on his stomach, head tilted towards the headboard with his arm bent at an odd angle—since he opened his eyes. That was nearly half an hour ago. He had been asleep for a little over twelve hours, and he was wide-awake now. His head was pounding with one of those horrible headaches you get after taking a nap that left you worse off than you were when you first went down.

            If he moved, he knew it would feel like a knife was being run through his temple, which was in large part why he stayed where he was despite the fact that his arm was slowly falling asleep. This bad day was gradually just getting worse, and he was starting to regret even coming here in the first place. Surely, he wasn’t going to get the part now, which meant all of this was for nothing.

            The room phone started to ring. He squeezed his eyes shut. This was some kind of nightmare. LA wasn’t a place; it was a hell scape where tragedies happened.

            With a grunt, he scooted his body towards the nightstand and reached out for the phone. “’Lo?” he greeted, his voice gravelly from sleep.

            “Mr. Whitehead, there’s a Mr. Styles on the line for you. Can I patch him through?”

            “What? No, don’t—“

            He heard the line click, and he knew that she had patched him through anyway. Something told him she had every intention of doing so—that _someone_ had thrown his weight around just to get through to Fionn.

            He told himself he was angry about it, that he resented him for this. He told himself it was wrong. That the butterflies in his stomach were hunger, not anticipation.

            “You don’t tell people when you’re leaving the country now?” Harry asked as soon as he was through.

            Fionn nearly snorted. “I’m sorry, _Mum_. I didn’t realize it mattered. It’s only for a day before I go back.”

            Technically he was supposed to be here for the rest of the week, but that was most definitely not happening now. He had his fill of LA and everything it offered.

            A pause. “Then we’ll make the best of it. When’s your audition?”

            “Uh.” He raked his brain trying to remember the last email his manager had sent him. “9.”

            “And I take it you didn’t _just_ go to sleep, did you?”

            “How—“

            “Because you’re useless when you’re tired,” Harry said. “I bet you hardly made it an hour before you went to bed.”

            “I’ll have you know I made it _two_ hours before I went to bed.”

            “Well way to prove me wrong, Finley. Where are you staying?”

            “The Roosevelt.”

            “How posh of you.” He sounded positively delighted by this. “Let’s meet up. I’ll keep you awake until your audition. No point in acclimating if you’re going back tomorrow anyway.”

            He rubbed the back of his neck. “What did you want to do?”

            “I’ll show you LA,” Harry said. “The LA that _I_ love. Please, Fionn?”

            Maybe it was the way he said please, or the fact that he said Fionn and not Finley. Or the intrigue of seeing the city that Harry Styles loved rather than the Los Angeles that the world knew.

            Maybe it was all of these reasons that had Fionn agreeing and getting out bed to get ready before Harry showed up. He told Fionn he’d come pick him up since he had a car here. _Save you the Uber trip_ , he said, but Fionn thought he might’ve known the real reason; the control freak that he was, Harry wanted to be able to say when Fionn left this time.

            He was halfway to the elevator when he realized his headache had cleared.

 

* * *

 

            Nothing about Harry surprised him at this point, but he didn’t expect him to pull up in a retro convertible Mercedes-Benz 230SL. His face was far too pleased when Fionn froze, his mouth falling open at the sight of it. Harry pushed his glasses over his hair—Fionn realized with a jolt that they were Tom’s glasses he took from Fionn at the pub—before sticking his head out of the opened window.

            “Stop staring and get in, Finley!” he hollered.

            Fionn shook his head and walked around the front, ignoring Harry when he started to flicker the headlights on and off to mess with him. He got into the low bucket seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Nice car.”

            “You like that, huh?” Harry grinned as he merged back onto the main road. “Next time I’ll show you my bike.”

            “Your bike?”

            “I bought a motorbike a couple years ago. We’ll have matching helmets. It’ll be lovely.”

            Fionn tried not to picture being pressed against Harry’s back, his arms wrapped around his waist. “Funny.”

            “I love driving her, though,” Harry said, patting the top of the dash fondly. “One of the reasons I’m always here.”

            “One of,” Fionn repeated.

            “I’m going to show you the other reason tonight,” he promised. “Hungry?”

            “A bit. Is anything open?”

            “I know a few places.”

            “As long as they don’t serve smashed beets and pine nuts on toast for about ten pounds.”

            “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

            Fionn didn’t know what to say to that so he said nothing, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of them.

            Turns out, Harry was an excellent driver in the states, though he supposed it helped that not too many cars were on the road at this time. He was very cautious and always used his signals. At one point, a car stopped abruptly in front of them, and Harry’s arm flew out in front of Fionn’s chest, like some sort of Gucci clad safety bar. When he arched a brow, Harry’s face flushed, and he dropped his arm.

            Apparently, Harry knew Fionn a little bit better than he initially thought. After fifteen minutes of straight driving, the pair of them sitting in silence with only the low hum of whatever song Harry was playing on the radio, he pulled up to some sort of shack. He unfolded his ridiculous legs and got out, with only one parting phrase for Fionn,

           “Stay here.”

            Fionn watched as he ambled up to the window. He squinted, trying to see what the sign said, but it was falling apart in places and only the letters F, H, and E managed to survive. The boy that Harry was talking to wore an apron over a yellow shirt, the kind that dad’s wore on holidays to warmer climates. Absolutely nothing about what was happening helped Fionn understand where he was or what was happening, and by the time Harry came back, a white bag in hand, Fionn had come to the conclusion that Harry was finally going to off him.

            “Where are we?” he asked warily when Harry opened the back driver’s side door.

            “We’re still in LA County, don’t worry.”

            Harry put the bag in the backseat. Immediately, the smell of salt and grease smacked Fionn in the face. “Is that fish?”

            “And chips,” Harry said, his tone smug. “The best place I’ve found in California.” When Fionn didn’t say anything, his smile slipped. “Did I get it wrong?”

            “No,” he said quickly. “I just—I don’t know. This is fine.”

            He didn’t know how to tell Harry that some of his favorite memories were going to Brighton with his parents and sitting on the stones, splitting a giant order between the three of them. He didn’t know how to tell him that the last time he had fish and chips was when his dad was still alive. He didn’t know how to thank him for finding this piece of home for him in a place that felt like anything but.

            This time the silence that settled between them wasn’t uncomfortable like before. Intuitively, Harry seemed to know that Fionn was in his thoughts, and he left him to them. At some point, he must’ve dozed off because the next time he opened his eyes, he was staring at the ocean.

            “Fionn. We’re here,” Harry said softly, shutting off the car. “You alright?”

            “I’m good,” he said.

            “I’ve got to get something from the boot. Head down to the beach if you’d like.”

            “Do you want me to take the food?”

            “Nah, I’ve got it,” Harry said. Quickly, he squeezed Fionn’s knee and got out of the car. Fionn took a deep breath before following suit, wrapping his arms around himself. It wasn’t nearly as cold here as it was back home at the time of year, but the jacket he wore over his thin shirt did nothing to protect him from the ocean’s breeze.

            Unlike Brighton, the beaches here were sand, the granules pale under the moonlight. He took his shoes and socks off and carried them down to the shoreline with him. The closer he got to the ocean, the sounds of Harry rummaging around in his car and closing and opening doors faded into the soothing sound of the waves breaking on the shore.

            If London made him feel small, the ocean made him feel microscopic. In Dunkirk, he was constantly reminded of this, but people had surrounded him then. There wasn’t a lot of spare time for quiet introspection like this.

            Except for those nights with Harry.

            He looked over his shoulder just as Harry joined him, a plaid blanket thrown over his shoulder. Together, they spread the blanket out on the sand and sat, placing the food between them. As they ate, they talked about inconsequential things--nothing to do with London or the things that went on there, and that was fine by Fionn. He learned Harry had flown in a couple days before Fionn did and only figured out Fionn was here when he saw one of the fan pictures from when he arrived. Fionn told him about the audition and about some of the scripts he’d been reading. Harry seemed interested in the roles that he was offered, and Fionn could picture him now, researching the projects and texting Fionn any tidbits he managed to find.

            It was just. So _Harry_.

            “I tend to stay in Malibu more often now,” he was in the middle of telling Fionn. That’s where they were now according to him. One of his friends had a home close to here, which was why he knew about the private beach. “It’s quieter. I can think here. You know what it reminds me of?”

            “Dunkirk,” Fionn said. His eyes flickered to Harry’s briefly. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing.”

            Harry’s mouth curved into a half smile. “I’ve been coming here a lot recently. It helped me write.”

            A moment from earlier came back to him suddenly. “Oh yeah, at lunch today, my friend said you had a song coming out.”

            Harry blinked at him. “Your friend?”

            “Lad from my agency,” he explained, though he wasn’t sure why he did. “He said—“

            “It’s not for another month or so,” Harry said, turning away from him. “I haven’t finished it completely. It’s not perfect yet.”

            “Who cares about perfect? You’ve already announced it!”

            “Yeah, I, uh, might’ve jumped the gun on that one. It’ll work itself out.”

            “If you say so.” He started to smash one of his chips between his index finger and thumb. When it was properly mashed, he threw it into the sand in front of him. “Harry?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Why’d you call me?”

            He heard Harry’s sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t look at him. To be honest, he _couldn’t_ look at him. “I dunno,” he said. “A little bit to see if you’d actually answer, I think—“

            His heart was like a boulder in his chest. “Right, okay—“

            “But mostly because I wanted to see you,” Harry continued, as if Fionn hadn't tried to interrupt. “I think a lot of stuff between us got mucked up in London, and I know most of it—well, _all_ of it—was my fault.”

            Fionn’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve been thinking about this then?”

            “A bit,” Harry said, smiling sheepishly. “I dunno, Fionn. I just missed you. No one can put me in my place like you do, and no one will tell me if my jokes aren’t funny. Do you think—do you think we could go back to before?”

            He didn’t know what Harry meant by that, and he thought that might’ve been half of the problem. He couldn’t just go back to how it was with Harry, where everything was confusing, and Fionn was constantly on edge. He needed to reset the boundaries to give himself some peace of mind, and so Harry wasn’t constantly trying to blur them.

            “I don’t want to go back,” Fionn said after a moment, “but I think I could be your friend, Harry. I think that’s what I want.”

            He didn’t know if it was the late hour making him delirious or the dark lighting making it hard to see, but he swore he saw hurt--the same hurt he saw back in Tom's flat--flash through Harry’s eyes before a bright, easy grin spread over his face, sweeping the emotion away entirely. “Good. Ready to go to the next location?”

            As he got to his feet, Fionn stared up at him, his brows furrowed. “There’s more?”

            “Of course there’s more, Finley. We have a few more hours to kill." Harry held out his hand to help Fionn up, and he slipped his hand into Harry’s, the warmth of it startling compared to the chill in the air. As if he weighed nothing at all, Harry pulled him up onto his feet.

            Instead of letting go of his hand like Fionn expected, Harry used his other hand to brush some sand out of Fionn’s hair that the wind must’ve blown into it. Fionn flinched away from the contact, and Harry dropped his hand as if it had burned him.

            Harry turned away to gather the blanket and trash from their meal. 

           “C’mon," he said, straightening up. He plastered on another smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We’re going to be late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to spoil you guys and make this one chapter instead of splitting it up in the way that I originally planned. 
> 
> No, but really, I’m going to try to up the word count so expect longer chapters! There might be a little longer in between updates, but I’m still going to shoot for about three updates a week. Don’t hold me to that though because I’ll pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about if you call me out on it.
> 
> Anyway. A little less angst in this one (said with all the sarcasm). Hope you enjoyed, etc. Side blog is still mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com, and I still have a praise kink if any of you were wondering.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as always, harry is a goof and fionn is a bit lovestruck yet disgruntled. there might be a haircutting scene somewhere thrown in. 
> 
> enjoy.

           They were stopped at a red light when one of Harry’s phones started going off in earnest. It wasn’t the pink one, but the one without the case that he only saw him use when he spoke to his managers Jeff and Tommy or during phone interviews for the radio.

            “Shit,” Harry said under his breath as his thumbs raced to fire off a text. “Shit, shit, shit—“

            “What’s wrong?” Fionn asked, turning in the seat to face him.

            He ran his fingers through his hair. “My main gate isn’t opening, and the housekeeper is trying to get in.”

            Fionn looked down at his watch. “It’s only half five in the morning.”

            “She likes an early start,” Harry mumbled as he typed away on his phone. He set it down in the cup holder between them, sighing. “Do you mind if we stop by my house?”

            “No, I don’t mind.”

            “It’s a bit out of the way. We’re going to miss the other thing— _fuck_. Fuck, fuck—“

            “Harry, it’s not a big deal,” Fionn said. He had never seen Harry this shaken up before; usually, he just took everything in stride.

            “It _is_ a big deal,” Harry insisted earnestly. “I wanted to— _God_ , I had it all planned. They were going to let us in and the lights were going to just be turning back on—“

            “Lights? What lights? Who is ‘ _they’_?”

            “The Museum of Art. The lights. That fucking display— _Urban Light_. I wanted to show you them without a bunch of people around. Fuck. It’s all ruined now.”

            Fionn opened his mouth only to close it again.

           During filming, they had a tradition—it felt like so long ago now—where they piled into Tom’s room and one of them got to pick the movie from the catalog the hotel had. It was Harry’s night. Jack brought in extra beer because he knew they were in for another romantic comedy. The only thing that Harry could find that they all hadn’t watched yet was an Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman film. Objectively, it was a pretty shite film, but there was a scene—Fionn remembered the tall, white lampposts.

          He also remembered saying he might like to see them one day.

         Leaning forward in his seat, he put his head in his hands.

        “Maybe I can—Fionn?” He felt his hand touch his shoulder. “Fionn, what’s wrong?”

        “I feel ill,” he mumbled into his hands.

        “Do you want me to get you a ginger ale?”

        “Dear God—“ Fionn lifted his head, squinting his eyes at Harry. “Why are you so thoughtful and accommodating? Who are you? _Where_ did you even come from?”

        He blinked at him. “I’m sorry. What should I do?”

        “Just drive to your house,” he said. “Let your bloody housekeeper in.”

        “Okay,” Harry said slowly. “Got it.”

        “Brilliant,” he said, putting his head back in his hands.

        Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking spot. Everything would be so much easier if everything Harry did weren’t so damn endearing. He was just…a genuinely nice human being and that was the most distressing thing about it all—because Harry could also be incredibly careless and selfish and inconsiderate and sometimes Fionn thought he really might hate him.

 _Get it together_ , he chastised himself. _He’s just a bloody_ guy.

        “Okay,” Harry said after a moment. “I know you’re having a moment, but you’re freaking me out. Talk to me.”

        “How far away is your house?”

         “A little over half an hour. I’ll make breakfast. I have that licorice and mint Teapigs in my pantry—“

        “For the love of— _why_ do you have my favorite tea in your pantry?” Fionn asked, sitting up. “You hate licorice, Harry.”

         Harry shifted in his seat. “I might’ve bought it, um, a couple months ago.”

         “What? _Why_?”

         “Well, it was right before Tom’s show.” He looked properly uncomfortable now. “I didn’t—to be completely honest, it was when I thought you might want to come to my show.”

         “Why is it that _I’m_ coming off worse than you right now?” Fionn asked. “I mean the fish and chips, the beach, the _lampposts_ —now the bloody _Teapigs_. What am I supposed to say now?”

          “I dunno,” Harry said, scratching the side of his nose. “Thank you, I guess?”

           A surprised laugh tumbled from Fionn’s mouth, which quickly turned into the kind of laugh that had him clutching his stomach, his shoulders shaking from trying to quell the laughter and failing. Harry looked over at him, a bemused smile on his face that only made Fionn laugh harder.

          He rolled down the window, the wind whipping at his hair. He shifted in his seat so he could stick his head out, his arm resting on the door. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath before letting out a yell—and everything that had been plaguing him since that night in the pub along with it.

 

* * *

 

            The first thing Fionn noticed about Harry’s house wasn’t the impressive architecture—though it was impressive. It was the giant FOR SALE sign in front of it.

            “You’re moving?” he asked as Harry punched in the gate code to get onto his property. His housekeeper was waiting further up on the drive, where Harry apparently had another more secure gate that blocked off the house itself from the rest of the driveway. Before, Fionn might’ve found that to be excessive but now he was all too familiar with what Harry dealt with on a daily basis.

            Truthfully, there probably should have been another gate. Possibly a moat. Alligators.

            “Yeah.” The black gates slowly started to pull open, and Harry drove towards the house.

            “To where?”

            “I want to spend more time in London. Be closer to my mum.”

            “So you’re selling your house?”

            “Yes. The market’s the highest it’s been in a while, and it’s the right time to sell—why are you asking me this?” He laughed, shaking his head. “Of all the things to talk about, we’re talking about bloody _real estate_.”

            Fionn pursed his lips. “I just didn’t realize you knew so much about the topic.”

            “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Harry said, but the playful tone was gone now. He didn’t say anything else, and Fionn didn’t either.

            He had seen pictures of Harry’s LA home when Tom asked what it looked like and Harry showed him a few pictures. One of those modern monstrosities, it resembled white boxes being stacked on top of one another with large balconies and walls of windows that looked out over the city. The entire third floor was apparently Harry’s master suite. Objectively, it was nice.

            If you liked living in a work of art rather than a home.

            His housekeeper’s little blue car was idling up ahead. Now that they was closer, Fionn could see what the problem was; the gates had opened, but only partially, and seemed to be jammed now leaving either side of the gate remaining frozen in the air. Her car might’ve fit through, but the gates would definitely have scratched the roof of her car.

           Harry parked his car behind hers before getting out.

            “Grace,” Fionn heard him call out. “Love, I am _so_ sorry about this—“

            From his seat, he watched Harry roll up the sleeves of his jumper, revealing his tanned forearms and tattoos, and start to pull on one side of the gate. Fionn might’ve offered to help— _offered_ being the operative word—but he was completely and embarrassingly enchanted by Harry doing manual labor.

            Realistically, he knew that Harry hadn’t always been _Harry_ his whole life. He never missed an opportunity to remind everyone that he worked in a bakery, and he grew up in the countryside, which meant he was no stranger to being outside and getting dirty. But actually seeing this, seeing Harry doing something like _this_ —Fionn wasn’t convinced he wasn’t going to vomit today.

            When Harry got back in the car, he didn’t even look like he broke a sweat despite having just lifted a reinforced steel gate up. He followed his housekeeper—Grace—the rest of the way up to the house. In the massive garage, he parked next to a black Range Rover and led Fionn up the stairs into the house.

            “We’ve packed up most of my things,” Harry said as he switched on the spotlights in the kitchen. “Everything that’s left is either getting picked up tomorrow or staying for staging.”

            Much like the outside, inside was minimalistic with clean lines and contemporary influences. He wondered how much of it was Harry’s style. For some reason, he pictured a lot of artwork and rugs thrown around. Walls painted warm colors and a luxurious couch that didn’t sacrifice comfort for style. A comfortable and cozy and creative environment.

            It wasn’t this. This seemed—harsh. Closed off. Shiny and beautiful but distant.

            “Lovely home,” he lied, running his hand over the white marble countertops.

            Harry snorted. “You hate it.”

            “I don’t—“

            “You do. It’s fine. I didn’t pick any of it out.”

            “Oh. Well. Then yeah it’s shite.”

            “I was always out when I came to LA. I didn’t stay here enough to care,” he said with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. He started to pull things out of the fridge—egg whites, spinach, and mushrooms—before he froze, an onion in hand. “What am I doing?”

            “Making one of your other friends breakfast apparently,” Fionn said, wrinkling his nose at the vegan cheese. “In what world, Harry?”

            “A day of clean eating wouldn’t kill you, Finley,” Harry said, smirking, as he put everything back. He grabbed the carton of regular eggs. “But I should be catering to my demographic. I’ll even use butter instead of coconut oil.”

            “Thanks, mate. My doctor will send a fruit basket.”

            “Brilliant. I love those expensive pears. Now make yourself useful and grate the cheese.”

            Chuckling, Fionn went to get the grater from where Harry said it was and got to work. At some point, Harry turned on music from a control panel on the wall, and they worked quietly next to each other preparing breakfast. It was…oddly comforting, this domesticity with Harry, who was at ease in the kitchen.

            He danced around the work area, bumping his hips into Fionn, reaching over his head to grab a bowl from one of the cabinets. He started singing under his breath, reminding Fionn of when they were on set and all the times he’d break out in song.

            Except when Fionn looked up, Harry’s mouth was slightly opened, his tongue poking out, as he carefully diced a tomato. There was no way he could have been singing. Fionn stopped scooping out avocados. His eyes darted to the control panel, and he could clearly make out a milky pink square with a naked back visible in the middle.

            “Is this your album?” he asked.

            Without moving his head, Harry’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “Um. Yes.”

            “You have your own album on your iTunes?”

            “Kind of,” Harry said, scratching his jaw. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

            Fionn set down his spoon. “Turn it up.”

            “What?”

            “Turn the volume up. I haven’t listened to it yet.”

            “The audacity,” Harry said, but he was grinning madly as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel and went over to the panel. He looked at Fionn as he turned the volume up, waiting for Fionn to nod that the volume was okay. When he joined Fionn back at the island, Fionn could practically feel the excitement radiating off of him.

            But there was also that undercurrent of uncertainty. Fionn could see it in the way he glanced at him every so often, or how he held his breath when the song changed. Fionn only noticed these things in the periphery though; the majority of his brain function was being left to Harry’s music—to his voice.

            Dear God. His _voice_. On set, when he sung, it was always theatrical. Fionn knew he could carry a tune obviously, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t _this_.

            The world was an unfair place.

            His breathing was coming out raged now. The album was coming to an end right as Harry started plating their food. There was that infamous line about masturbation—hearing the words fall from Harry’s mouth, low and velvety. Smooth and slow like honey dripping from a spoon.

            “Hey.” Fionn opened his eyes and Harry was standing right next to him. Their food was sitting on the dining table now, on top of gold place settings that were already set out for the staging.

            “Nice song,” he managed to say.

            “Its one of my favorites,” Harry told him. “Are you ready to eat? We have a couple more hours before I take you to your audition—“

            “Harry, what is happening here?” Fionn asked, turning so he was facing him. He brushed against Harry, and he was satisfied to see Harry’s breath catch. It wasn’t just him. This wasn’t in his head. “Why am I at your house making breakfast with you? Why are you taking me to my audition?”

            “Because—because you’re leaving,” Harry said, dropping his eyes. “And I don’t know when I can see you next.”

            Before he could overthink it, Fionn reached out and touched his hand. Harry’s head snapped up. Fionn smiled. “Do you think you could do me a favor then?”

 

* * *

 

            For some reason, Harry decided he needed to take his jumper off to cut Fionn’s hair. Well actually, his reason was that it was Gucci, and he didn’t want to explain to the dry cleaner why little black curls were embedded in the fabric. This also meant Fionn was eye level with Harry’s abs, which Fionn noticed were a little less defined now. Harry tried to convince him he should take his shirt off, too, but Fionn put his foot down on that one.

            He was sat on the toilet, the lid down, while Harry watched a YouTube video on his phone, his brows furrowed in concentration. Fionn appreciated the effort. Harry reached over to the counter and grabbed the pair of copper scissors, glancing down at Fionn.

            “And you’re sure about this?” he asked.

            “I don’t have time to get a haircut before the audition,” Fionn said. “You’re my only hope.”

            Harry’s eyes lit up, and he nodded. “I’ll just trim you up, alright?”

            “Whatever you think looks good.”

            “Hey, Fionn?”

            He pulled his gaze away from Harry’s abs and lifted his face towards Harry’s. There was a trail of dark hair that went straight down into his waistband. “Yeah?”

            “Thanks for trusting me,” he said with a soft smile that made his heart squeeze.

            Fionn nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, no problem, mate.”

            Harry ran his fingers through Fionn’s hair, and Fionn sighed contentedly. They decided against dunking his head under the tap, and Harry draped a towel over Fionn’s shoulders. He grabbed the comb and got to work brushing Fionn’s hair forward. He worked gently, taking care to hold onto Fionn’s skull as he brushed through the tangles so it wouldn’t tug on Fionn’s scalp.

            It was the gentleness that made his throat tighten. Harry worked quietly; the only sounds in the bathroom were their breathing and the snip, snip, snip of the scissors. Little strands of black fell from his head onto his lap and onto the floor.

            He didn’t know why he said what he said next, didn’t know what would possess him to do so, especially since Harry was in the middle of cutting his hair. “There’s something about bathrooms.”

            Harry’s hand stilled. “I’m sorry?”

            “I was just thinking that there was something about being in a bathroom.”

“Care to elaborate?”

            “Not really.”

            “Will you let me know when you do?”

            “Sure.”

            “Okay,” Harry said, taking a step back. “I think I’m done. Feel free to have a look in the mirror to see my masterpiece.”

            “That good, huh?” he asked as he got to his feet, brushing the hair off of his lap.

            “I’m thinking about a career change as we speak.” He stood behind Fionn as he looked at himself in the mirror, turning his head from side to side to see what Harry did. He could see Harry’s smile in the reflection. “I can’t take all the credit though,” he continued. “I had a pretty good canvas to work on.”

            Fionn’s mouth twitched, but he kept his face expressionless. “Oof. The corniness is suffocating.”

            “Just tell me if you like it or not,” Harry said, shoving Fionn’s shoulder before walking out of the bathroom to get a broom.

            When Fionn turned back into the mirror, he ran his fingers through his hair, the strands noticeable shorter when he did. Most of what Harry trimmed was on the sides, leaving his hair longer on top so it still curled onto his forehead, stopping above his eyebrows. It wasn’t the best haircut he’d ever gotten, but Fionn could clearly see where Harry had picked up some of the techniques his own stylist used. It was one of the reasons he trusted Harry to do it; he did spend five years watching his band mates getting haircuts in hotel rooms.

            Harry walked back into the bathroom with a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other, his jeans riding low on his hips. Fionn’s eyes dropped to the laurel tattoos. He had always loved those tattoos. They were beautiful in their simplicity. He wanted to run his thumb over the branches. He wanted to press a kiss to the very center of them both.

            They locked eyes.

            “You must really like the haircut,” Harry joked, his voice a little strained.

            “It’ll do,” Fionn said. He couldn’t resist any opportunity to knock Harry down a notch, especially when every thought in his head was currently dedicated to all the things he’d do to Harry’s tattoos.

            “Did you want to take a shower?” he asked, realized what he said, and quickly clarified, “To, uh, rinse off?”

            “No, that’s okay.” He glanced at his watch. “We should probably leave.”

           

-

           

            Harry parked in front of the office building that Fionn’s manager emailed him the address of earlier that day—no, yesterday. Early yesterday before he got on his flight. A whole day had gone by since he left England. They stopped by Fionn’s hotel to grab his script, and it was now sat in his lap. People besides them were awake now, going on jogs or heading to work. A woman walking her dog walked by the front of the car and nearly broke her neck when she saw who was sitting in the front seat. Harry turned his body more towards Fionn, either not noticing her or ignoring her entirely. If he had to guess, Fionn thought it might be the latter. 

            There was something about that gesture that tugged at Fionn’s heartstrings; he tucked the emotion aside for later inspection when he was alone in his hotel room again.

            “Could I, uh, get your new number?” Harry asked suddenly, scratching the back of his head. He looked extraordinarily awkward, and Fionn would be lying if he said he wasn’t delighted by it. “I tried calling your cell phone before I contacted the hotel, but it said it was disconnected. I asked Tom, and he said you changed it.”

            Briefly, Fionn wondered why Tom didn’t just give Harry his new number.

            He stared down at his phone in his hand. It would sort of defeat the whole purpose of getting the new phone, but he did tell Harry he’d try to be his friend. They cooked breakfast together. He let Harry cut his hair.

            “Sure,” Fionn said, handing Harry his phone. “Don’t put any idiotic emojis by your contact.”

            “I’d never,” Harry said distractedly, pursing his lips as he entered his number. His own phone buzzed in his lap. “Alright, I texted myself so I’d have it, too.”

            “Brilliant.” He undid his seatbelt and bent down to grab his bag. “I guess I’ll, uh, talk to you later then.”

            “Yes,” Harry said, nodding enthusiastically. “Call me when you’re done, okay?”

            “Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

            “And then when you get home.”

            “I will.”

            “Promise?”

            Fionn’s laughed. “Yes.”

            “Say it then,” Harry said, pointing a finger at Fionn.

            “I promise I’ll call you,” Fionn said, still laughing, as he swatted his hand away. “Take care, okay?”

            “Good luck,” Harry said, capturing Fionn’s hand. “I know you’ll smash it.”

            “Thank you,” he said, and he was surprised just how much he meant it. “For, um, everything.”

            “Any time,” Harry said. He gave Fionn’s hand a squeeze before letting go. “Now go. Before you’re late.”

            Before Fionn disappeared into the building, he spared a look over his shoulder to where Harry was parked. He lifted his hand to wave. The last thing he remembered seeing before he went into his audition was the way Harry looked—his face breaking into the most beaming, proud smile that Fionn had ever seen. Fionn’s glasses still perched in his loose curls. Eyelids droopy from sleep but those green eyes alert, as if he was afraid he’d miss something.

           For a moment, Fionn allowed himself to imagine what it would be like—to have Harry drop him off at his auditions after making breakfast together. Getting picked up by him. Coming home and lying in bed while Fionn talked about how it went.

          Kissing him whenever he felt like. Listening to him sing, just for him.

         Taking a deep breath, Fionn pushed these thoughts aside, armoring his heart against all the things that it wanted, and stepped inside.

           

* * *

 

            The audition had gone as good as it was going to go. Only one of the directors was there, but he and the casting director seemed pleased enough. They even asked him a few personal questions that led him to believe they were interested in him. Fionn didn’t feel great about it, but he also wasn’t overthinking any of it either. It was fine.

           It would do.

            He called his manager and told them that he had no intentions of staying in LA any longer, that he’d be on the first flight out of here. He could hear whether or not he moved on from the comfort of his home. Even though he didn’t get the tan, he got a haircut and that was enough self-improvement for him at this present time.

            This time when he walked up to the airport entrance, he prepared himself for the fans. As he was getting into the taxi in front of his hotel with his bags, a couple fans had spotted him and took his picture. So he wasn’t surprised when the taxi pulled up and a very, very small group was standing there—one girl even had a homemade sign with his face from the Dunkirk promotional poster on it.

            He tried to smile for each and every one of them, taking care to keep his mouth closed. “Thank you,” he started to say when he was sure the last girl had gotten the picture, but a man with a camera hopped onto the sidewalk, the camera pointed at Fionn’s face.

            “Hey, Fionn. How are you liking LA?” he called out from behind his equipment. More people were joining them now, the crowd getting larger and larger. He could see the sliding doors. A few more feet and he’d be through them.

            Fionn said nothing to the pap. He knew better than to respond. And if he didn’t, all of his management team had drilled it into his head that the best headline was no headline.

           That didn’t stop the man. If anything, his silence only made it worse.

           “What were you and Harry Styles doing last night?” he asked, directly in Fionn’s face now. “Is it true you flew out here for him?”

            Fionn froze. The girls that crowded around him were all staring at him, their phones hovering in the air with their thumbs posed to take their pictures. It was like a scene in a movie where time stops for everything but the protagonist. If it was happening to anyone else, he might’ve found this moment comical.

            One of the girls behind him broke the moment first.

           “ _OhmyGod_ , are you _seeing_ Harry?”

            Chaos erupted all around him.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. i had chapters 5 and 6 mapped out from the get-go. chapter 5 is only the beginning of everything, friends. i always planned this chapter to be a lighter/fluffier one because of things to come so don't think i've gotten soft on all of you. and i've already started chapter 6 so i'm very, very excited to get it done. like i said last chapter, i'm trying to work on writing longer and sitting on my words a little longer so i'm happier with the end result.
> 
> i will say that one thing this fic has taught me is to give my characters room to breathe. some things have come out different than i intended them to be, but i don't regret a thing i've changed. i'm as much on this ride as y'all are, and i am soooo thrilled that we're in this together. 
> 
> side blog is mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com. i'll always reply over there so please don't be afraid to come say hi.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bolognese, friends, and puppies. 
> 
> enjoy.

             Objectively, it was innocent.

             A picture of Harry getting back into his car after he got their food that morning had been picked up by various media outlets. His body was turned towards Fionn, and Fionn was staring straight ahead, away from Harry. It was too far and too blurry to see Fionn’s expression, which might’ve betrayed the emotion he was feeling in that moment after realizing what Harry had done for him without knowing.

            There was nothing wrong with it really, nothing to hint at an illicit affair between costars, but that wasn’t what rose eyebrows. The issue was the late hour. The fact that no one knew why Fionn, who was rarely seen traveling, was in LA and happened to be seen with Harry. If he was in their position, he could see how people thought Fionn very well couldn’ve been there just to see Harry. The fact that neither person—Harry, really, since Fionn didn’t have social media—said anything about it online made it all seem sneaky and secretive. As if they had something to hide.

            Now, all of the videos of Harry very openly flirting with Fionn during the promo were being twisted around, retold with this new information. The handholding. The inside jokes. The lingering gazes.

            Yeah, the picture was innocent, but all of this together?

            That was just damning.

 

* * *

 

 

_A Week Later_

 

            He didn’t get the part.

            But he did get a part in a play—a play that he was really excited about—and shooting started for one of the other roles he got before the audition. A couple of his cast mates had gotten in touch with him, and they were going out for drinks soon.

            He texted Tom. Then Jack. Apologized for the way he’d been acting.

            The water for the pasta just started boiling when he heard someone knock on his door. He set the sauce he was working on to simmer and went to answer, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans.

            “Hey, mate,” Tom greeted him with a sheepish half smile. He peered into the flat around Fionn. “Something smells good—holy hell, is that a _dog_?”

            “ _Shut up_.” Fionn grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him. On the couch, his mongrel of a puppy was snoozing peacefully, a little ball of black. His new favorite spot was right on top of Fionn’s fur throw. Fionn was more than happy to share it with him. “We’re not allowed pets.”

            “So what the hell is it?” Tom asked as he stripped off his jacket.

            Fionn hooked his coat on a rack he picked up at a charity shop last month, and without looking at Tom, he said, “He’s a Chonzer.”

            “A _what_?”

            “Don’t be a dick head. He’s a mini Schnauzer/Bichon mix.”

            “Why on Earth did you buy him?”

            “Well,” Fionn said as he sat down on the couch next to his puppy. “He kind of looked like me.”

            The dog lifted his head, revealing the patch of white right on his chest. He tilted his head at Tom, who was kneeling on the floor in front of him, and his big black eyes peered into Tom’s blue ones. “Holy hell, he actually does. What’s his name? Don’t tell me its Finley.”

            “Lewis.”

            “That’s—why?”

            “It was the name he came with,” Fionn said, scratching behind his puppy’s ear. Lewis lifted his head towards Fionn’s hand, and Fionn cupped it so he could scratch him under his chin like he liked. “I didn’t want to confuse him.”

            “Do we have to eat?” Tom asked, as he propped his head up on his fist, watching Lewis. “I just want to look at him.”

            “You’ll spoil ‘em,” Fionn said. He got to his feet, cuffing the back of Tom’s head. “Come on. Help me with the salad.”

            “How am I meant to do that when Lewis is here? Can I at least give him a treat?”

            “As long as you plan on teaching him to pee outside before you give it to him.”

            “You’re a terrible mum,” Tom grumbled, but he left Lewis on the couch and joined Fionn in the kitchen, shuffling over with his socked feet. He snatched the wooden spoon out of Fionn’s hand with a flourish and brought it to his mouth to try the sauce. “Needs more garlic.”

            “Shut up.” Fionn grabbed the spoon back. “You’re a nuisance. Open a bottle of wine.”

            “Why, so you can watch me drink it?”

            “No. I’ll drink a beer.”

            “Predictable,” Tom said, but he was grinning as he went to grab one of the bottles of wine Fionn stuck on top of the fridge. They were mostly from his management team and media types congratulating him on things. He usually just put them all up there and then went to the fridge to grab a beer to remind himself that that was who he was.

            They finished up in the kitchen and brought their plates and drinks over to the couch, where Lewis moved over so he could sit between Tom and Fionn, putting his little head in Fionn’s lap. Tom asked if they could feed him some Bolognese and when neither of them could come up with an answer that didn’t potentially kill Fionn’s dog, they Googled it (its not recommended). They tucked into their meals, a comfortable silence settling between them, as they watched Lewis sleep.

            When they finished, Fionn took their empty plates into the kitchen and started to load the dishwasher while Tom flipped through the channels for a movie to watch. Lewis retreated to Fionn’s bedroom, where his own bed was. When Fionn rejoined Tom on the couch, he handed him a full glass of wine and a spare blanket since the fur throw had Lewis’ fur all over it now.

            “Find anything?” he asked.

            Tom shook his head. “Made in Chelsea reruns mostly.”

            “Ah yes. I need to catch up,” Fionn said dryly.

            “Later then.” Tom left the TV on a Harry Potter movie and leaned forward to set the remote down on the coffee table. “I wanted to talk to you.”

            “About?”

            “About your trip to LA.”

            “Tom—“

            “I saw the picture,” he said, “and I have the rare privilege of actually knowing the two of you.”

            “We were having such a nice time,” Fionn mumbled, bringing his knees to his chest.

            “You and Harry?”

            “No, you idiot. Me and you until you had to go and ruin it. How’d you even see it?” He was under the impression Harry’s team had it removed within hours.

            “My followers kept tweeting it to me, asking if I knew anything about it."

            “Ah.”

            “And Harry told me about it when I saw him the other day.”

            The familiar squeeze of jealousy still managed to snatch Fionn’s breath away. “Mm.”

            “Is that all I get?”

            “What do you want me to say?”

            “I want you to tell me what happened,” Tom said. “Your own words. Not Harry’s, not the press’. C’mon, Fionn.”

            “Fine,” he said. As a reward, Tom draped the blanket over Fionn’s legs and angled his body to face him, his expression patient. Fionn picked at one of the loose threads in the blanket. “He called me at my hotel because he wanted to show me the beach. We ate. We talked. He took me back to his place—oi, don’t look at me like that—and we made breakfast. He cut my hair before dropping me off at my audition. Later that day, when I was on my way home, a pap at the airport asked if we were seeing each other.”

            “I saw the video,” Tom told him. “Your face was brilliant.”

            “He caught me off guard,” Fionn said defensively. “Do you want to hear the rest or what?”

            “I do. Continue.”

            “So I called him on my way back to the hotel, and he showed up already in problem solving mode. He was talking to his manager, Jeff—“

            “That’s a good lad—sorry, not the time, go on.”

            Fionn gave him a look. “And Jeff was saying they’d put a statement out saying we weren’t together and nothing happened basically. End of.”

            “Harry said you kicked him out,” Tom said.

            He rolled his eyes. “Well if Harry said.”

            “Did you?”

            “Did I what?”

            “Jesus Christ, Fionn. _Did you kick him out_?”

            His finger worried a small hole through the blanket. “Yeah. Kind of.”

            “Oh, Fionn,” Tom sighed, running his hand through his hair. He started filming another movie, and he was allowed to dye his hair back to its natural color and wear a wig for the play. Fionn had missed the blonde, though he’d never tell Tom that. He didn’t want him to think he was somehow hideous with the ginger. He was already self-conscious enough about the change.

            “What?”

            “ _Why’d_ you kick him out?”

            “Because—because _fuck_ , Tom,” Fionn said. Even to his own ears he sounded desperate, but maybe this was it. Maybe this was what it took for him to feel better, if someone understood him. “It was like I was in trouble or something. He didn’t even ask if I wanted to make a statement, or what I wanted to say in one. He just—he just did it.”

            “And that’s the problem?”

            “Well yeah—“

            “It’s not though, is it?” Tom asked, tilting his head. “Because I know you, Fionn, and you hate dealing with that sort of stuff. So why do you care if Harry took care of everything for you?”

            “Are you on _his_ side?”

            “What are you? Five?” He threw a cushion at Fionn, who swatted it away before it hit him. They both looked to make sure Lewis was still in Fionn’s room in case more pillows went flying. “There aren’t sides. You’re both my mates. I just want to understand.”

            “He treated me like a child,” Fionn said flatly. “Are you done now?”

            “Not even close. And that, what? Made you embarrassed?”

            Before he could stop, he asked, “When was the last time Harry put out a statement explaining his relationship with someone?”

            “I dunno,” Tom admitted. “I don’t pay attention to him like that. Is that why you’re bothered? You’re offended he set the record straight?”

            He groaned, throwing the blanket over his head. He was wrong. This was doing nothing but embarrassing him further. “It doesn’t matter.”

            “It _does_ matter,” Tom said as he ripped the blanket off. Fionn’s hair tried to go with it, the static from rubbing against the fabric making it stick up. “I’m not trying to shame you, mate. I’m just trying to understand.”

            “I just—“ He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling like an idiot. “We kissed, okay? We’ve kissed a couple times now. And I—I dunno. I think I might’ve liked him despite myself. And this whole thing just proved to me that maybe it’s better this way. Better that I don't. I guess. I don’t know.”

            “Because he made a statement saying nothing happened,” Tom said.

            “And nothing _did_ happen. Not that night at least. So what was the point in even bothering?”

            “So that’s why you were mad. Because he bulldozed you.”

            “Pretty much.”

            “And that’s what you think happened?”

            “Yeah, that’s what I think.”

            There had been a few restless nights where Fionn thought he might’ve been irrational—that maybe Harry was simply being pragmatic. That it was _Fionn_ who said they were just friends.

            But then he remembered the bathroom. That stupid fucking bathroom in that stupid fucking pub.

            The muscle in Tom’s jaw twitched, his pale eyes searching Fionn’s face. “I see.”

            “I know you want us all to be friends,” Fionn said. “Because it was our first big movie and we were in it together. I get it. I do. And I love that you want that for us, Tom. But I can’t—“

            “I know,” Tom said. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to, mate.”

            When he leaned over to take Fionn’s hand, Fionn didn’t pull away. He didn’t make some excuse about work or how tired he was to get Tom to go home now that he had revealed so much. He had nearly laid himself bare in front of his friend, and he didn’t know why he was so relieved when Tom didn’t laugh in his face.

            He should’ve just known he wouldn’t have done that.

            “Yeah,” Tom said, his mouth quirking into a smile. “You should have.”

 

* * *

 

            Quickly, he realized that his life as he knew it was no longer a possibility for him. After Tom came over for dinner, he decided to move on—not move on like he tried to do two months ago, when he basically avoided everything and anything, but to truly move past it all.

            Except everyone else seemed to have different plans for him.

            It was raining as he walked back home from the tube station, but that wasn’t the noteworthy part of his night (to be fair, it was never a noteworthy part of any night considering he lived in the UK). The notable part was the crowd of people outside of his building, and his landlord, Mr. Gregory, standing out on the steps with his hands on his hips, barking at them that this was private property.

            Mr. Gregory’s milky eyes found Fionn, standing on the opposite side of the street, first. His mouth fell into that familiar scowl, looking completely and utterly unimpressed. Fionn braced himself; it would be so like his landlord to call out to him now, sending the mass of people over to him and leaving him for dead.

            “He’s _not_ here!” Mr. Gregory called out. “And I’ve never seen any pop stars show up here for him! Now go away before I call the authorities!”

            “Shit,” Fionn breathed when he realized the paps and fans were actually listening. He ducked into the alleyway between the kebab shop and the dry-cleaners to avoid being seen. He thanked whatever higher being may be up there for giving him the foresight to not wear his yellow jacket that morning when he left the house.

            Pressed against the brick wall, he waited until he could no longer hear voices—until there was nothing left but taxis wheezing by. He squeezed his eyes shut. In the back of his mind, he knew it wasn’t long before they found out where he lived. He wasn’t exactly hiding the fact. There wasn’t even much security. There were certainly not two gates that closed him off from the street.

            He knew, but he wanted to believe that maybe he was wrong.

            “They’re gone.” His eyes flew open, and he was staring at Mr. Gregory, still red faced and puffed up from having to herd nearly a hundred people away from his front door.

            “Thank you,” Fionn managed.

            Mr. Gregory shook his head, his eyes filled with that familiar pity. “Don’t thank me, son. You know what I have to do.”

            “You’re kicking me out.”

            “Don’t have much of a choice now. You’ll be fine. You’ll find a place.”

            “I understand,” Fionn said because he did. He did. He had put Mr. Gregory in a tough spot. “I’ll be out by the end of the week.”

            “I’ll refund you for part of this month.”

            “Nah, it’s fine.”

            “Alright then.” He knew Gregory wasn’t about to argue with him over money. They were walking back towards their building when his landlord suddenly stopped, a slow grin spreading over his weathered face. “I suppose it’s only fair, innit? Since you’ve got that dog up there.”

 

            

* * *

 

 

_A Week Earlier_

           

            He hadn’t been able to get out of LA.

           He texted his manager with the change of plans and went back to the hotel, where he called Harry to tell him what happened. But Harry didn’t leave it there. That wasn’t in his nature. He showed up at Fionn’s room barely ten minutes after they hung up, his expression grim as he listened to someone talking to him on his phone.

           Fionn slid down the headboard, his head hitting one of the fluffy white pillows. He had never seen Harry like this—serious and determined. It was like he had shed his skin and stepped into a new body, a new persona.

            “What do we have to do?” Harry was asking his phone, purposefully not looking at Fionn. If Fionn closed his eyes, he wouldn’t have even been able to tell it was Harry in the room with him.

            His manager’s voice echoed throughout the room from Harry’s phone, which he put on speakerphone for Fionn’s benefit. “We contacted the source, and we’re taking down the pictures now. We’ll put out a statement—the two of you are friends, you were visiting one another. Nothing happened. It’ll be fine, H. We’ll make this go away.”

            _We can’t go public with this. No one could ever find out_.

            After Harry said goodbye to Jeff—“I’ll call you as soon as I’m in London, bro”—the only sound in Fionn’s suite was Harry typing away furiously on his phone. Fionn slipped out of the bed and went into the loo, the door shutting with a click behind him. He turned on the tap and cupped his hands under the lukewarm stream, letting the water collect for a bit before splashing his face.

            When he went back into the room, Harry was staring out of the window, toying with his bottom lip. He looked up when he realized Fionn was standing there. He didn’t smile.

            “Alright?” he asked, but it sounded forced, like his manners outweighed how much he cared about the answer.

            Fionn ignored the question. “Do you always do this?”

            The corners of his mouth turned down. “Do what?”

            “Put out a statement like this.” He recalled Harry being seen out with many people, but he rarely ever seemed to bother with a statement. To Fionn, he thought the best thing to do was ignore this. If they denied it, it was practically an admission of guilt.

            Harry just stared at Fionn, and it was the silence that answered Fionn’s question:

            _No_. He didn’t. Just with _Fionn_.

            His mind went into overdrive.

            He needed to get out of this country. Perhaps he’d get a dog. Perhaps that was the companionship he needed.

            His fur throw was calling to him.

            He took a deep breath. “Right, okay. If that’s all then, I need to work on getting a later flight out of here.”

            “I can arrange a—“

            “I know you can arrange a plane, Harry.” He hadn’t meant to snap, but by the time he realized he had done it, it was too late. “I didn’t ask for one though.”

            Harry’s jaw hardened at Fionn’s tone. “Is that how it’s going to be then?”

            “Yeah,” Fionn said _._ Maybe he’d get a pug. “That’s how it’s going to be.”

            “So you’re kicking me out?” Harry asked, his voice rising now. Harry never raised his voice. “After everything? Really?”

            An English bulldog maybe? Or was that too expected?

            “I want to go home,” he said. His bags were still where he left them by the door, and he heaved his carry on onto his bed in search of a fresh shirt.

            Harry made a dismissive noise at the back of his throat. “What’s the real problem?”

            He’d check to see with his landlord if pets were allowed. Mr. Otto had that cat, but she didn’t live inside so it’s possible—

            “You’re not even listening to me.” Harry got to his feet and crossed the room to where Fionn stood. He put his hands over Fionn’s so he’d stop rummaging through his luggage. “Fionn, really? What the fuck did I do now?”

            “I don’t want to talk—“

            “Well I do. _Talk to me_.”

            He could feel the moment his patience snapped in half.

            Like a string that was pulled taut had finally been severed.

            “You want me to talk?” he asked, snatching his hands back. “You didn’t ask if I wanted to talk before you called Jeff. Before you made all the decisions like I was some _deviant_ who couldn’t be trusted not to mess it up, and you have this _need_ to control everything. Before—before—“

            _Before you told the world that no way would we ever be together_.

            “Is that what you think of me?” Harry’s voice was oddly quiet.

            Fionn turned away. “Just go, Harry. Do both of us a favor and just go.”

            “Okay,” Harry said, taking a step back. He laughed a shaky, unhinged kind of laugh. “I’m sincerely sorry that I’ve been so horrible to you that you think that of my character, but I’m not going to keep doing this with you. I can’t, Fionn.”

            “No one is asking you to,” Fionn nearly spat. He was so angry, and he didn’t know why. It was building inside of him. Choking him. Demanding release. He didn’t know how to stop it. All he did know was that he was hurting, and instead of explaining _why_ to Harry, he wanted Harry to hurt the same way. “Just leave. I didn’t bloody ask you to come.”

            Harry didn’t even wait for him to finish his sentence before he was out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay there's a little time hop in this one so i hope it was easy to understand. at first i didn't intend to structure this chapter that way, but i thought it was fun so i tried it. let me know if there's any confusion! my inbox at mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com is always open.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Surprise to no one, I didn’t do…the best research for this in terms of Fionn’s personal life so while Harry’s background is more accurate (the knowledge you garner from obsessing over the same person for 3+ years), Fionn’s isn’t really accurate at all besides a few things. To be honest, I didn’t really think there’d be a lot about him online so I skimmed his Wiki for general facts and sort of made up the rest. It wasn’t until this chapter that I realized there was actually quite a bit online about his background…please don’t hate me! Okay, thanks!
> 
> Enjoy!

      For the first time in a very long time, Fionn felt lost.

       Like most things in Gregory’s life to date, he ended up being wrong about Fionn’s flat prospects. It was the end of the week, and Fionn still couldn’t find a place within his price range that was secure enough for him now that he was constantly being followed. The only places that met the criteria were the exact places he wanted to avoid.

       He considered trying to talk Gregory into giving him another week, but he wasn’t sure it would make much of a difference in the end, and he didn’t really have much more of his dignity left as it was. He packed each and every one of his belongings into cardboard boxes, labeling each one carefully with the location they belonged in. With one last look at the flat he called home these past couple years, he turned the lights off and shut the door behind him.

        Taking the tube would have been difficult with his luggage so he called a car to pick him up behind the building. Gregory stood by the door with arms folded over his chest, watching Fionn stick his things in the boot.

         Fionn hesitated before getting into the backseat, gripping the door. “Well. Thanks.”

         “Good luck,” Gregory said. “Don’t let them change you.”

          The trip was a half hour, and he spent most of it trying to calm himself down. His driver kept trying to talk to him about his job, and for once, he didn’t mind the conversation. It was a welcome distraction from the dark turn his thoughts were starting to take.

            When she opened the door, the first thing he noticed was how much grayer her hair had gotten. In hindsight, it was a stupid thing to notice. She was so much more than the color of her hair, which was the exact same shade as Fionn’s.

            Over her shoulder, he could see his dad’s sax still leaning against the bookcase, as if he would come downstairs at any moment and pick it up again. The coat rack was still full of Dad’s jackets and hats, and he was sure that if he went into the sitting room, the mantel would be covered with photos of his dad with their wedding photo on display right in the middle.

            Two years had passed since Fionn left—four since his father died—and the house still looked exactly the same.

            “Hi, Mum. Can I come in?”

 

* * *

 

            He stared down at the cup of tea Mum made him, trying to ignore how uncomfortable it was to have her staring at him like she was. He supposed she deserved that much. The most she had gotten out of him throughout the past couple years were the phone calls that he only gave grudgingly, and a few holidays that he couldn’t find an excuse to get out of coming over here for. He was a pathetic excuse for a son.

            They were in the kitchen, with the peeling floral wallpaper and the outdated appliances. The table still had his initials carved into the grain from when he was eight. All of the appliances were a faded mint color that looked to be more apart of a retro television studio set than an actual kitchen people used. Nothing was different. It was a snapshot of a former life that he could step right into it again.

            “Where are the rest of your things?” Mum asked suddenly, her brows furrowing, as if she just recalled the moment he showed up at her door. As if she was worried that he’d been living with only three suitcases worth of belongings.

            “In storage.” He planned on moving it all into the storage facility himself, but Tom flat out refused to help—“I’m not breaking my back for you, mate”—so he was forced to call movers to come retrieve his meager furnishings. He was, however, gracious enough to take in Lewis until Fionn could feel out the situation with his mum. “Is this alright? My staying here until I find a place?”

            She nodded, offering him a shaky smile. “Of course. Everything’s exactly how you left it.”

            “Right,” he said, scratching the underside of his jaw. Then his arm. Then his thigh. Everything seemed to _itch_. “So, um, I can make dinner?”

            “Actually, darling, I have to get to work,” she said, getting to her feet. The room practically breathed a sigh of relief, like it, too, was grateful for an excuse to escape the awkwardness. “Feel free to use the kitchen as you please.”

            As she walked past him towards the stairs, she paused long enough to put her hand on his shoulder. Before she could pull away, he placed his hand over hers and squeezed; in that moment, as fleeting as it was, he felt that maybe they did have each other after all.

 

* * *

 

            True to her word, his old room was exactly as he left it, right down to the scripts still sitting on his desk from before. He flipped through one idly, wondering who had taken on the project and what happened to it. He slipped it into one of the drawers for safekeeping and looked around the rest of his room, which was oddly clean—a far cry from what it looked like when he lived here still. His bed was even made, the pillows neatly placed against the headboard. He could imagine his mum coming in here every morning, smoothing out invisible creases and fluffing the pillows.

            The image filled him with sadness. He decided a long time ago that he wouldn’t feel guilty for leaving anymore, that it was the best decision for him. That he always intended on leaving. None of that helped though. Seeing just how bad his mum had gotten didn’t ease the shame. He let this happen. He used to think that she left him, but he never considered that she needed him, too.

            He spent the next hour unpacking, slowly taking his things out of his suitcases and putting them away next to all of his old stuff. It was the strangest thing to see—his old life and his new life merging together in his wardrobe. He ran his hand over the jeans he wore when he was younger, the fabric worn and weathered after multiple wears. The story of his life could be told through these clothes, through this bed, through the books that lined the shelves. Every memory he had could be traced back to the items in this room.

            How many nights had he imagined escaping from this house with its shitty wallpaper and leaking pipes? How ironic that the first time he felt truly adrift, it was this house he turned back to.

 

* * *

 

           As he started on making his dinner, he received a text from Tom with a picture attached of Lewis snoozing in front of his fireplace, on top of Fionn’s fur throw that he gave Tom with the rest of Lewis’ things. He turned his camera around and took a picture of himself standing in front of the stove, his mouth turned down into an exaggerated pout, with a text that said, _Give him a kiss for me_.

           He talked to Mum about bringing Lewis over, and she was more than happy with the idea, especially after she showed him pictures. No one could say no to Lewis.

           The TV was on in the background, turned down low on some entertainment news show. Barry’s new movie was already featured, and he was waiting around for the press conference Jack did for the movie he’s in next year. While he waited for his food to cook, he sat on the couch and turned the volume up. As he tucked into his meal, he set the remote down on the couch next to him with his bowl resting on his stomach. A segment on Jennifer Lawrence finished up, and before he could change the channel, the last person he wanted to see right now came onto the screen.

           A woman’s voice narrated over a montage of pictures of Harry from the past few months. Pictures from Dunkirk promo and trailers were mixed in with pictures from his album.

           “ _Harry Styles’ new secret single is upon his. The former One Direction star announced on Instagram that next week fans will be able to stream the single for free on multiple streaming platforms across the world. When asked why the sudden drop, Styles said, ‘I think it’s the, uh, best song I’ve written in a long time, and it’s not right to keep it to myself. I don’t want to keep it from the world_ —‘”

           Fionn shut the TV off and walked out of the room.

 

* * *

    

            One of the good things about being home was being closer to his old mates—or at least he thought it was a good thing that first night. When they all talked about graduating uni and finding jobs, Fionn sat in the corner, quietly nursing his beer. Coming home felt like stepping back into a former life; being here, surrounded by his peers, he felt like he was in a whole new world. He could no longer relate to what they were saying and what they’ve experienced. He took their ribbings about his _posh new life_ and his _fancy new friends_ with a smile on his face before downing the rest of his pint.

            He was happy to see them, and he knew they didn’t mean anything by it but still. It stung. He hadn’t felt so _other_ in such a long time, he almost forgot what it felt like. When he was younger, he had his dad in his corner. Now? Now all he had was this beer and the reminder that none of this needed to last forever.

            Later that night, when he stumbled through the front door, he found Mum sitting in the living room, wrapped in her dressing gown with her graying hair falling around her small face. He paused in the doorway. “Mum?”

            “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Did you have a nice time?”

            “It was fine,” he said, shutting the front door. He could already feel himself sobering up, like a shot of espresso directly to his veins. “Did you want some tea?”

            “I’m fine, darling,” she said with a shaky smile. “Go up to bed. You have a big morning.”

            “I’ll be okay.” He walked into the living room, sitting on the paisley armchair opposite the couch.Apparently, his alcohol addled mind seemed to think that this was the time to talk to his mum.He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Can we talk?”

            “Of course, darling. What’s wrong?”

            “I’m worried about you.”

            Her forehead creased in confusion. “Worried about me? Why are you worried about me? I’m—“

            “I know you’re going to say you’re fine, Mum, but you’re not. I know you’re not.”

            “Fionn.“

            “Why is his stuff still all over the house?” he asked, gesturing to his father’s things that were still scattered all over the living room. His instruments, his music books, his boots by the door. “This isn’t—it’s not _healthy_ , Mum.”

            “It helps me,” she insisted, though he doubted even she believed that now.

            “Does it?” He winced at how harsh he sounded and tried again, softening his tone. “Mum, I miss him, too. I might not think about him every day, but I still love him. What happened—it was terrible. But we can’t let it control us anymore. He’s not coming back. We can’t keep living in a tomb.”

            “You weren’t here,” she said quietly. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

            “That’s fair,” he said, “but I’d feel a lot better knowing you were better, Mum.”

            _I’d feel better if you were making an effort_.

            Her eyes filled with tears, and he didn’t even have to think twice before getting out of his chair and going over to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She was stiff at first, as if she forgot what it was like to be held by another person, but eventually her shoulders relaxed. She slumped into him just as a sob escaped her mouth. He brushed her hair out of her face as the tears started to fall, and he cradled her to his chest. He remembered the last time they were in this position. Only it was his mum holding him then. He was sixteen, and he had been rejected for the third time that week for a role. He thought it was never going to happen for him, that all of his hard work was going to be for nothing.

            Things like that felt so small now, even though it was only a few years ago. As he listened to his mum fall apart in his arms, he couldn’t believe he ever let something so insignificant break him like that. Mum lost the love of her life, and there was nothing she could do about it. And then her only son left her behind and hardly looked back. Her only son, who had allowed a guy, who never even liked him, control his every thought and emotion.

            Carefully, he led his mum up the stairs to the spare room since he figured out that she doesn’t sleep in the master anymore. He learned about it on one of his first nights back, when he was woken up by the sound of crying. After checking her bedroom and seeing it was empty, he went down the hall to the spare room and found her curled up in a ball on the bed.

            He wondered how much he was here to help his mum and how much she was helping him now. Selfishly, her situation put everything into perspective for him. That cloud that had been hanging over him was gone now, replaced by the clarity he’d been lacking to see his situation for what it was. He thought he knew before, but that first rejection was nothing compared to this.

            Harry would never love him.

            And maybe he wasn’t okay with that now, but he would be. He knew that he would be. If his mum could survive losing his dad, he could survive anything.

 

* * *

 

            “Mum, you don’t have to get rid of everything,” Fionn said, his hands on his hips as he stared down at her. He stood in the doorway to her bedroom, watching her place all of Dad’s things in boxes carefully. The entire ground floor was slowly starting to fill with these boxes that Mum was either going to donate or put down in the basement for safekeeping. Fionn had only agreed to this because at the very least it wasn’t lying around the house anymore for Mum to see every day.

            She looked up from a box that seemed to be filled with Dad’s socks. “I have a system. Did you find his tennis rackets?”

            “I put them in the basement.”

            “Good, good. Did you call—?”

            “He’s coming on Monday to pick them up.”

            “Good,” she sighed, turning back to the piles of clothes around her. “It all still smells like him.”

            Fionn walked into the bedroom and crouched down next to her, picking up a white t-shirt from one of the piles. The smell of rosin and cigarettes and mint hit Fionn, and he rocked back on his heels, memories assaulting him. Sitting on Dad’s lap on Christmas morning and learning how to ride his bike in front of the house. Watching his dad play his cello and then his sax and then the piano all in one song. It was so strange that years later, he still seemed to relate these scents to his dad.

            Growing up, Dad was his hero, but when he died, Fionn struggled with the idea that maybe he was more of the myth that Fionn made him out to be than the man that he was. As he helped his mum sort through his dad’s old things, he could see that he was a mixture of both—the hero in all of Fionn’s stories and a real, live, breathing person with a history. Mum showed him the pictures of Dad wearing a kilt at his best friend’s wedding, and the one of Dad in a fixed-wing plane with his thumb up and a wide grin that looked hauntingly familiar.

            He was taking some of the boxes downstairs when his phone started to buzz in his pocket. Shifting everything to one arm, he reached into his pocket and slid his thumb across the string without looking.

            “’Ello?”

            “Something’s happened to Harry.” One of the boxes slid off of the top when Fionn jerked forward, rolling down the stairs until it hit the bottom with a thud. “Fionn? Man, are you okay?”

            “I’m fine,” he managed to say. “What happened to Harry, Jack?”

            “I’m not sure, but I’m not in the city right now. Can you go over there and check on him?”

            “Mate—“

            “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t worried. I think he’s scared to call anyone else because he doesn’t want it ending up in the newspapers somewhere.”

            Fionn shut his eyes and leaned against the wall. He couldn’t tell Jack why he didn’t want to go to Harry’s without telling Jack why, and he didn’t think he was ready for that yet.

            “Okay. I’ll go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't not write a little bit of Harry in this chapter at all, and I do love a good cliffhanger so I hope you all liked to ending :) 
> 
> Come over to mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com if you want to talk/yell at me about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me all the problems. Enjoy.

For the last five minutes, he stood outside of Harry’s front gate getting pelted by the rain. Thankfully, the weather made it less enticing to stake out Harry’s place, which meant he was the only one outside tonight, and no one could mistake him for a stalker. His pocket vibrated with yet another message. Jack was still texting him asking if he had gotten there yet, if Harry was okay. Fionn knew he wouldn’t stop until Fionn sent him a picture of Harry, proving that he actually bothered to show up.

Taking a deep breath, he punched in the gate code Jack gave him and walked through the black door. Unlike his LA residence, which didn’t look real, this house was classic London. With its white walls and simple design, Fionn could see why Harry wanted to spend more time here. This house wasn’t in your face like the other one. Besides the size, it didn’t scream money.

Jack warned him that Harry wouldn’t be able to unlock the door, so he was left with the impossible task of trying to break into one of the most famous pop stars in the world’s house. On the way over, he figured the best way to do it was through a window, but it was mid-November in London. He doubted anyone had their windows even a little cracked right now.

The rain started to let up as he walked around the perimeter of the house, his hands stuffed in his pockets to keep warm. The lights were on in every single room o this side of the house except for one on the first floor, but that wasn’t the reason it caught his eye. He squinted, tilting his head back to get a better look.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

That same window was apparently also half opened.

Rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, he hauled himself on top of one of the bins. It wobbled underneath him, and he held his arms out for balance, freezing in place until the bin righted itself. The ledge was about a meter above his head, and his arms weren’t long enough to reach it without jumping. He would only have one shot at this then.

He bent at the knees and lunged. His fingers found purchase, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. With a grunt, he started to pull himself up. He kicked his feet against the wall, which was slick from the rain, and used it to help scale the side of the house since his upper body strength left something to be desired.

With one last heave, he fell through the window and tumbled inside, landing on his side. He winced as he pushed himself up, the right side of his body sore from hitting the tiled floor. He looked around what must’ve been one of the bathrooms, which was empty apart from him and a basket of bath products by the tub. He wasn’t sure where Harry was inside of the house, but he could definitively check this room off.

Outside, he walked down the hallway towards the winding staircase that led to the ground floor. He felt his mouth curving into a smile despite himself. This was the house he imagined Harry in, he realized. It was warm and inviting with funky light fixtures and mismatched furniture. It even had the colorful rugs. He heard the TV was on in another room, and he followed the sounds of what must’ve been a football match to the den.

“Hello? Harry?” he called out, peering around the corner into what was another sitting room. “It’s Fionn—“

“I know what your voice sounds like, donut.”

Fionn startled, whipping around. His eyes widened. “Harry, are you—are you _drunk_?”

A slow, lazy grin spread over his face. “Nooo.”

Irritation flared in his stomach.

Harry’s eyes were unfocused, and his cheeks were flushed pink, but there was nothing otherwise wrong with him. The smell of booze seemed to leak out of his pores, betraying just how much he had to drink. “You seriously called Jack because you were _pissed_? Really, Harry? He was worried sick.”

I _was worried sick_ , he didn’t say.

“How was I supposed to know he’d be worried?” Harry asked with a pout before collapsing onto the wine-colored couch. “It’s not my fault Jack called _you_.”

Maybe it was the fact that Harry was not, in fact, _dying_ or that he wasn’t even remotely grateful that Fionn bothered to show up. Maybe it was because of the way he said _you_ , as if Fionn was completely unwanted in not just this situation but in his life entirely.

Maybe it was the fact that Fionn had never seen Harry in pale blue jeans that weren’t painted onto his legs and that alone was doing terrible things to his heart.

“Fuck you,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t choke on your own vomit later tonight. Cheers.”

He just scaled a fucking _house_ to help him.

He was an idiot. An _absolute_ idiot.

But not more of an idiot than Harry was.

Disgusted, he started walking out of the room when he suddenly felt Harry grab his hand and tug him back. He was so caught off guard that he lost his footing, and Harry’s current state made matters much worse.

Both boys went stumbling backwards—Harry hitting the floor and Fionn falling on top of him. They stared at each other, their eyes wide. Harry’s hand was resting on Fionn’s lower back, and Fionn’s gaze dropped to Harry’s mouth, which parted ever so slightly.

 _No_ , his mind was screaming at him. _Not now_.

Quickly, Fionn rolled off of Harry. He ended up on his back next to Harry, staring up at the ceiling, wishing he hadn’t answered his phone when Jack called.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, his words a little slurred.

Fionn turned his head towards Harry, just to find him already looking at Fionn. “Jack said something happened to you.”

“And that’s why you came,” Harry said, sounding a little disappointed, though Fionn didn’t understand why.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“I thought you hated me.”

“Yeah,” Fionn said. “I thought I did, too.”

“Fionn—“

“C’mon, I’ll make you a cuppa. You need to sober up first,” he said, getting to his feet. He didn’t bother to help Harry up before he left the room to find the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you,” Harry said sheepishly, accepting his cup from Fionn. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I did,” Fionn deadpanned, “or risk Jack’s wrath.”

He snorted. “Right. Jack was _very_ worried.”

“Speaking of which.” Fionn pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned on the camera, pointing it at Harry. “Smile.”

Harry screwed up his face, wrinkling his nose and crossing his eyes at Fionn while he took the picture. He sent it to Jack and stuffed his phone back in his pocket before grabbing his own tea—licorice and mint—and joining Harry at the island.

Harry watched him put his phone away. His eyes flickered to Fionn’s. “Can we talk?”

He sighed, as if his next words physically pained him to say. “Yeah, we can talk.”

“We never really talked about what happened before.”

“I didn’t know how to.” _Nor did he want to_.

“I—I just wanted to say that I don’t regret it,” Harry said, running his finger around the rim of his cup. “That night. Either night. I feel like you think that I do, but I don’t.”

Fionn blinked. “Mate—“

“Don’t call me that,” Harry said roughly. “We’re not mates, Fionn. We might’ve been before but we’re not now. We’re—I don’t know what we are. More than that, I think. I was trying to tell you in Malibu, but I even messed that up.”

His head was spinning. “I don’t understand.”

“I never know what to say because I know it’s always going to be wrong. But I see the way you look at me sometimes. Like I’m not a person. Like I’m not good enough for you.” Harry’s neck was beet red now, and Fionn knew that he believed every word he was saying. “I’ll never be smart like you. I don’t know how to be anyone other than who I am.”

 “I don’t want you to be anyone else,” Fionn said. “You’re smart, Harry. You’re _so_ smart. I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you or handle things the way you do with such charm and grace.”

“But that’s the thing, innit?” Harry said, and his smile was sad again. Just like that night in the bathroom. “That’s who I am to you. You see me schmooze and work and make bad jokes, but you don’t try to see anything more than that. You don’t let me in.”

“I didn’t know,” Fionn said. “How was I supposed to know?”

“I know you didn’t,” Harry said, “but you didn’t exactly give me an opportunity to tell you.”

“You’re so up and down,” Fionn said, trying to think of an argument. He needed to figure out an angle that made sense because everything was getting twisted now. “I never know if you’re saying how you feel or just trying trick me into opening up—“

“Why not both?”

“Blimey, Harry. Listen to yourself.”

“I’m being serious!”

“I know you are—that’s half of the problem.”

“You’re _making_ problems.”

“All we ever do is fight,” Fionn said, rubbing the heel of his palms into his eye. He was suddenly so tired—tired of being on edge, of arguing with Harry. He tried to remember his mum, remember her own heartache and how much stronger she was than he was. He was pathetic. “We’re not even _together_ and all we do is bloody fight.”

Harry cocked his head to the side. “Is that what you want?”

“To fight?“

“No,” Harry said slowly, as patient as a saint. “To be with me. Be together. Is that what you want?”

 _I can’t give you what you want from me_.

“I—Harry, you’re drunk,” he said, evasively. His face was burning. He wasn’t going to do this again. “You’re not going to feel like this in the morning.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. He turned away. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Maybe I should go.” He pushed his stool back. “Everything’s fine here. You’re fine—“

“What if I said I wanted to kiss you again?”

“I’d ask how much you’ve had to drink.”

Harry ignored him. “Before you told me you could kiss me forever. No one’s ever said that to me and meant it, but I find myself thinking about you saying it all the time.”

Fionn’s heart skipped. “You don’t mean that.”

“Because I’m drunk, right?” He laughed humorlessly, getting down from his own stool. He was standing in front of Fionn now, between his legs. Because of their height difference, and how much Fionn tended to slouch, they were still face-to-face. “I’m crazy. I won’t feel like this in the morning. Is that what you’re saying?”

Fionn drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

“I think about that night at Tom’s all the time, too.” Fionn could only smell mint tea on Harry’s breath now, the liquor long gone. “When you came back inside holding that girl’s hand.”

He winced. The thought of it was enough to fill him with shame. “I don’t want to talk about that. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“I hated to think that I was why you did it,” Harry said, moving closer. Fionn twitched when Harry rested his hands on the tops of his thighs. He pretended not to notice. “I could have stopped that from happening, couldn’t I?”

“You’re giving yourself too much credit,” Fionn lied, mortified.

“I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not, but thank you for lying for my benefit.”

“Why are you so forward all the time?”

“Forward?” Harry almost smiled. “If I was really forward, I’d just kiss you already.”

  
“Because you won’t remember it in the morning?” Fionn asked, a little breathless now.

Harry laughed softly, slipping his arms around Fionn’s neck. “Yeah, Finley,” he said, his mouth a breath away from Fionn’s. “I won’t remember it in the morning.”

Harry’s whole body seemed to relax when their lips finally touched. His lips moved against Fionn’s with purpose, and when his tongue slipped into Fionn’s mouth, it wasn’t slow and lazy like before; this kiss was desperate, demanding—the culmination of every frustrated feeling and spat between the two of them.

Both of their bodies seemed to hum, _more, more, more_.

This time it was Fionn that pulled Harry closer, like he was scared if he let go, he’d disappear before he was ready. His emotions were building up inside of him, and he was grateful to be sitting down. Everything was trembling, revealing just how affected he was. As if Harry could sense this mayhem happening inside of Fionn’s head, Harry pulled back. He could feel himself start to deflate. It was happening all over again, just when Fionn thought—what did he think?

He tried to move away, but Harry was grabbing his hands, bringing him back down.

“Stop worrying,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss Fionn’s temple. “Get out of your head. _Trust me_.”

He cupped Fionn’s face in his hands and kissed him again before releasing his face to grasp him by the hips. Gently, he pulled Fionn off of the stool and started to walk backwards with his arms wrapped around Fionn’s waist. They tripped along a little because of Harry’s long, long legs, but Fionn wasn’t worried about falling over again.

He slid his hands under the black t-shirt Harry wore, feeling the warmth of Harry’s skin. “Off. This needs to be off.”

Without hesitating, Harry gripped the collar of his shirt behind his neck and tugged it over his head, throwing the shirt over his shoulder. He slipped Fionn’s jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Then, grabbing the hem of Fionn’s jumper, he slid it up over his head and tugged Fionn into him. As soon as they were skin to skin, a sigh left both of their mouths at the miracle that was Fionn’s skin on Harry’s. Harry didn’t even seem to mind that Fionn didn’t have abs to match his. His hands were everywhere—sliding over his collarbones, wrapping around Fionn’s waist, trailing up his spine.

 _This wasn’t real_ , he thought. _This couldn’t be real_.

“This is real,” Harry murmured, pulling back again, curving his hand under Fionn’s jaw. “Why won’t you trust me?”

Fionn looked into Harry’s eyes, his heart in his throat. “Why don’t you want people to know about me?”

Instead of answering, Harry drew him in for another kiss, as if that was enough. Fionn could feel his heart start to break, but he let Harry continue that backwards walk out of the kitchen, down the hall. Maybe this was just what they were—what they always would be. Fionn would constantly be chasing an answer he didn’t want to hear, and Harry would try to ease him into it as gently as possible.

He was too tired to fight it. He just wanted to feel good. He’d worry about the aftermath later when he was alone back in his room.

The master suite must’ve been on the ground floor because suddenly Fionn was walking over the threshold, and Harry was switching on the lights. He couldn’t even bother taking in what it looked like, committing it all to memory, because Harry was tumbling backwards onto the bed, taking Fionn with him and that was much, much more pressing.

They both fumbled to remove the other’s jeans and then they were both in only their pants, staring at each other for a moment while they caught their breath. Harry’s fingers slipped into the waistband of Fionn’s pants, and when he brushed against Fionn’s erection, he swore his heart gave out for a minute. Eager now, Harry took Fionn into his hand and finished what Fionn started in the bathroom.

“Fuck,” Fionn hissed, his forehead pressed against Harry’s shoulder. “Christ.”

“No, it’s Harry,” Harry teased, as if they were simply retelling that night and filling in all the gaps. He kissed the underside of Fionn’s jaw before he rolled them over so Harry was on top, his arm between them. “Did you already forget my name, Fionn?”

“I could never.” _Not even if he wanted to_.

“Say it then,” Harry whispered against the base of his throat. “My name.”

Fionn’s back arched when Harry’s thumb pressed the tip of his cock. “ _Harry_.”

“Yeah. Just like that.” Slowly, he started to move further down Fionn’s body, leaving a trail of fire with every searing kiss. He continued to pump his hand—Fionn always knew Harry had big hands but he underestimated just _how_ big—until his mouth replaced his hand.

“ _Harry_ ,” Fionn groaned when he hit the back of Harry’s throat. “Fucking hell, Harry.”

His hands went to the top of Harry’s head, his fingers twisting into his curls. Harry traced his tongue along the shaft of his cock. Fionn nearly convulsed, and reflexively, he tightened his grip in Harry’s hair. He was surprised to hear a small moan fall from Harry’s mouth. Curiously, he tugged a little harder, and he could feel another moan vibrate in Harry’s throat.

“I want to feel you,” Fionn breathed. He didn’t know how much longer he’d last, and he didn’t want this to end yet. “Harry.“

Harry lifted his head, his eyes a little glazed over. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want tonight—“

The sound of the doorbell ringing cut him off.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry groaned, pushing himself onto his knees. His legs were on either side of Fionn’s thighs, trapping him underneath him. “I bet its fucking Nick.”

“As in Grimshaw?” Fionn asked, propping himself up onto his elbows.

“Unfortunately.” Harry ran his fingers through his hair, looking torn. His hair was mused now because of Fionn, and his mouth was that familiar shade of red that Fionn was starting to love, shiny and slightly swollen. There was no doubt that he had been fooling around. “Go figure it’d be the person with the biggest mouth in the world.”

Ah.

“Well. I should go,” Fionn said, tucking his legs in so he could slide out from under Harry.

Harry’s face fell. He tried to reach for Fionn, but Fionn was already on his feet. “Hey. No. Stay.”

“I shouldn’t. It’s fine.” He grabbed his pants off of the floor and stepped into them. “Its late anyway.”

“So spend the night,” Harry said. He was still on the bed, nearly naked and making no effort to move. “Come back. Nick will leave.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“He won’t,” Fionn said as he picked up his jeans. The doorbell went off again, proving his point further. He pulled one of the legs out before slipping them over his pants. “He’s your friend.”

“So?” Harry’s forehead crinkled. “You’re my—my—“

“I’m nothing,” Fionn answered for him calmly, way more calmer than he felt. The final line of this tragic script. “It’s fine. I’ll see you around.”

Immediately, Harry called out his bluff. “When will you see me? I have rehearsals starting soon. I have to film a music video next week. I’m sure you’ve got commitments. I mean, the only reason you came tonight was because Jack forced you to.”

Fionn put his jumper back on, the material itchy against his skin. “I don’t know what you want me to say. What do you even want from me?”

“To begin with, I’d like you to come back to bed. Then I’d _love_ for you to be honest for once in your life.”

“There’s never enough time to sort out our shit so why bother?” he asked. He felt like he was packing his feelings away in boxes, just like he had to do when he packed up his flat. It was just unhealthy instinct after unhealthy instinct, but this was all Fionn knew. “It’s always going to come back to this. We’ll never move forward.”

“Because you won’t let it. I can already see it—you’re just going to run away again before we can even try, and I have to, what? Continue to chase after you?”

Without thinking, he said, “No one said you have to do that.”

The muscle in Harry’s jaw twitched.

“Two steps forward and one step back then, huh?” he asked flatly.

“I’ll go out the back way so Nick won’t see me,” Fionn said, backing out of the room. “I’m sorry I came.”

Harry was climbing out of his bed now, grabbing the top sheet with him and hastily wrapping it around his waist. “Fionn, fucking stop it.“

“I can’t think when I’m around you. I don’t know if I can even trust my judgment when I’m with you.”

“ _What_?”

“I’m not sure how I even feel about you or that this isn’t some sort of game to you—“

“Are you seriously accusing me of playing games when you’re grasping at straws to push me away? After all of this?”

The bell went off two more times in quick succession. “The door—“

“Oi, fuck the door.”

“You’re the one who pushed me away and told me you couldn’t do this so why should I expect things to be different now?”

“Fionn, that was _months_ ago.“

“Then how am I supposed to know that you’re not just trying to get me to sleep with you?”

Like a switch had been shut off, Harry’s whole face shut down.

“Really? Okay. If you want to run, I’m not going to stop you. We’re just talking ourselves in circles. But while you fancy yourself this tragic hero, _Finley_ , I’ve been trying so goddamn hard to make things up to you.

“I thought maybe you were different,” Harry continued, gripping the side of his door. His knuckles were bone white, like they’d break through the skin from how tightly he was clinging to the wood. “All I wanted was for you to trust me enough to finally tell me what’s going on with you instead of letting you run away, except it was for nothing because you’ve already made up your mind that I’m this terrible person. Nothing I do will ever be enough for you—not while you’re so caught up in the past and using it as an excuse.”

Fionn’s vision blurred. “Harry.”

At the sound of his name, Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Hoarsely, he said, “I think it’d be best if you left.”

 

* * *

 

Once Fionn was outside, he pulled his phone out to text his mum that he’d be home soon and saw he had unread messages from Jack from over fifteen minutes ago.

As he read Jack’s texts, he slid down Harry’s outer wall until he hit the ground. Shakily, he set his phone down on the ground next to him and tucked his legs up, resting his head on his knees.

 

* * *

 

 **Jack** : Thanks for going over there. Sorry I lied. I couldn’t handle Harry moaning about how much he missed you for much longer without doing something. You should have told me before, mate.

 **Jack** : Glad it all worked out though. Let me know how it went tomorrow, alright?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t remember the last time I’ve cried while writing, but this chapter changed that for me. There’s a lot to unload in this one. 
> 
> There might be a bit of a wait before the next chapter, but I'm planning on updating at least two more times before I go out of town next weekend. Especially because I go back to school after, and I'm not sure how frequently I can update. 
> 
> Side blog: mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry technically has a show on November 23rd but well, that was just not convenient for me and my plotlines. To quote Jack Lowden, "Very ill thought." So sorry, Singapore, but I'm erasing your tour date. 
> 
> Also, I think we need to have a quick chat. Well, not so much a chat as me just talking at you. Basically, I went into this without a clear idea how long it’d be, which was why the chapters have been x/? since the start. I planned on going as long as I can until I get to the ending that I envisioned, and that end has actually started to come sooner than I thought it would. 
> 
> Therefore, this is the penultimate chapter, which is why this has a lot of jumps in scenes. Chapter 10 will be the final chapter BUT there will be an epilogue. So technically, there will be 11 chapters total. 
> 
> Okay! Enjoy! Thanks!

It was Mum’s turn to be worried about him.

Fionn stayed in bed as long as he could until he had to go down to finish shooting the movie he started back in October. Location was clear across town, and he was reminded once again why he couldn’t stay with his mum for much longer. It wasn’t convenient, and he was going to be much busier in a couple weeks when all of the jobs he started begun production or rehearsals. The extended train rides back into Central London also left him too much time to be in his own head, and that was something he needed to avoid for the time being.

She found him outside in the garden. It was an unseasonably warm day, and he was sitting at the picnic table reading over his lines for tomorrow. A bit of Vitamin D would hopefully do him some good. He looked up as she set down a plate of biscuits next to his script.

“Hi, Mum.” Already she looked so much better than she did when he first arrived. Her hair was combed and pulled up into a neat bun like she used to wear it, and she was no longer wearing her uniform all day, even after she came home from work. She was making an effort, which showed him even more that he needed to start to make one, too.

She sat in the chair next to him, nodding at his scripts. “Are you looking at more projects?”

“Oh no,” he said, “I have enough on my plate. I’m just reading over my lines.”

“You keep so busy, just like your father,” she said with a small smile. “He was never satisfied sitting around.”

Fionn stared at her. She never volunteered information about Dad, especially not about Before. “I remember that,” he said after a moment. “He was always jumping around from one thing to the other.”

“He was so happy when you wanted to learn the guitar,” Mum said, “but he was absolutely brimming with pride when you said you were going to try acting.”

“Because it was something he hadn’t done before,” Fionn recalled. His dad loved sharing his interests with Fionn, but he loved when Fionn was his own person even more. He was always telling him to carve his own path instead of following the one he set out for him.

Mum’s eyes were glassy now, but she was still beaming at him. “He’d be so proud of you, Fionn. I can’t help but think how things would be so different if he were still alive.”

“Mum—“

“Something’s wrong, darling. I know it was your father that you always went to for these sorts of things, but I want you to talk to me if you need to. I know how you are.” She shook her head, taking a deep breath. “You’re so much like me in that way.”

Fionn looked down at his hands. “Okay. Well. I guess—I guess there’s a guy.”

He was mortified.

“A boyfriend?” she asked, straightening up.

He repressed the urge to snort. “No. Not a boyfriend. He was, um, actually my costar in that last movie I did. Remember? Dunkirk?”

“Of course I remember,” Mum said. A little defensively, Fionn noticed with surprise. “Which one? It was hard to tell the difference—oh, was it the pilot? He was dishy.”

“No,” Fionn said, and this time he did snort. Him and Jack. Good lord. “It was, uh, one of the soldiers on the beach with me. Alex—er, well Harry’s his real name. Harry Styles?”

His mum’s eyes widened. “The pop star?”

“He’s more than just a pop star,” Fionn mumbled. “He’s—he’s just brilliant, Mum. He’s kind and charming and—and he’s so talented. I don’t even care that he’s bloody gorgeous, even though he definitely is. I’m in absolute awe of him half the time.”

Mum’s eyes softened. “You really like him.”

“I do,” he said quietly, “but I messed it all up anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was at his house the other night. He was trying to get me to open up to him, but I was—I was—“ He was scared. So scared. Of his feelings for Harry. Of getting rejected again.

Honestly, he was _terrified_ of Harry waking up one morning and realizing that he could do worlds better than Fionn.

“I understand, darling,” Mum said when he didn’t continue. She reached over and wrapped her arm around him, pulling him into her. His head rested on her shoulder, and she started to run her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. “I can only blame myself. You don’t let anyone in long enough to give them the opportunity to hurt you.

“If you like this boy, then you’ll figure it out, darling. Give him time.”

He wished that it were that easy. In reality, he knew he finally messed up bad enough that Harry was probably done with him for good.

 

* * *

 

            It was Tom who suggested doing a movie night when Fionn texted him that he planned on picking up Lewis. Fionn was actually very impressed with how much convincing Tom was prepared to do before he even gave Fionn an opportunity to make a decision. Which was why Tom’s coffee table was currently covered with Fionn’s favorite snacks in little crystal bowls and a bucket full of his favorite beers chilling.

            Fionn slouched on the couch so Lewis could rest his head in the crook of Fionn’s neck as he sprawled out on his chest. On the floor, Jack was trying to figure out how to hook up Tom’s new blue ray player while Tom was getting blankets together in his spare room for the boys. Absently, he ran his fingers up and down Lewis’ spine. He was never going anywhere without seeing his dog again. He was already so much bigger than he was when he dropped him off, and Fionn missed all of it—especially since Tom was shite at taking pictures for him.

            “I _am_ a terrible mum,” he whispered to Lewis as he scratched behind his ear.

            Jack looked up from the instruction manual he was flipping through. “I’ve never seen anything so disturbing.”

            “What? Me with a dog?”

            “No, you being gentle. It’s _bizarre_.”

            “Ha-ha,” Fionn said, fighting to keep the grin off of his face. “You’re just jealous Lewis doesn’t like you.”

            “Hey, that little rat—“

            “There will be no Lewis slander in my home,” Tom said as he walked back into the room, his arms full of blankets. He set them down on the arm of the couch before sitting down next to Fionn. “Jack, mate, we can order a movie.”

            “I’ve almost got it,” Jack said under his breath as he scooted around so his back was to them.

            Tom lolled his head to the side and winked at Fionn.

            “So,” he said. “Jack told me he was a dirty liar the other night. How’d it go?”

            Fionn shifted Lewis, who was slipping a little. “I fucked it up. I fucked it all up.”

            He could feel Tom staring at him, just as Jack whipped around.

            “Are you serious?” Tom asked just as Jack said, “How? He’s mad about you.”

            Fionn couldn’t meet Tom’s eyes, so he focused on Jack. “You don’t know anything about it.”

            “No?” Jack was on his knees now, glaring at Fionn. “Who was the one who had to listen to him on the phone go on and on about how much he missed you and how much he wanted to see you again? Who had to listen to one of his mate’s describe _in detail_ how great it was to kiss his other mate? Oh yeah, _me_.”

            “He was so upset after LA, too,” Tom added, piling onto the guilt that was already on Fionn’s shoulders. “If you think seeing the way Fionn is with Lewis is bizarre, imagine a Harry Styles who isn’t smiling.” He shuddered dramatically. “It’s just wrong.”

            “I didn’t tell him to tell you guys all of that—“

            “Yeah, but we’re mates, Fionn. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

            Jack pointed the dead remote at Fionn. “I knew something was wrong with you before. I told you that you could talk to me about anything.”

            “I was embarrassed.”

            “Why?” Tom asked. “Because you had a crush on Harry? I already knew that.”

            “What? How?”

            “Are you really asking me that? You were so obvious.”

            “Wait, how did you know that?” Jack asked. His brows furrowed. “I didn’t know that.”

            “That’s because you’re _oblivious_.”

            “Shut up.”

            Tom stuck his tongue out at him before turning back to Fionn. “You have to call him and fix things. We’ll get flowers or—a-yo, we’ll make a sign! Hold it under his window—“

            “This isn’t a bloody rom com,” Fionn said, cutting him off. “I’m not doing that. He’s going back on tour soon anyway. It’s done with.”

            “That’s crap and you know it,” Jack said. “The two of you are ridiculous. You’re both adults. Just talk to each other.”

            For the love of God. “I thought we were meant to watch a movie. Not meddle in my love life.”

            “We can do both,” Tom said as he reached for the bowl full of pastel colored Smarties. “On a scale of 1-10, how good of a kisser is Harry?”

            Fionn narrowed his eyes at him. “Sod off.”

            “I agree,” Jack said. “I’m tired of thinking about snogging Styles. I almost called Vicky Harry the other night.”

            “Fine. What about that guy from your agency?” Tom asked. “Robert Something-Rather. Blonde bloke. Fit. I ran into out the other night at a party. He was asking after you, Fionn. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one you ditched in LA.”

            “Oh, God.” He completely forgot about Robert. He probably owed him a text explaining why he was MIA for drinks. “Was he mad?”

            “No, just curious I think. I didn’t think you’d be the type to juggle two lads, Finley. How saucy.”

            “You’re enjoying this way too much. It’s not like that with Robert.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because he doesn’t see me in that way. We’re mates.” Sort of.

            Jack threw his arms up in exasperation. “Oi, here we go.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “You’re so damn self-deprecating,” Jack said, shaking his head. “No wonder you’re constantly picking a fight with Styles. You’re trying to get him to admit that you’re not good enough so you can feel validated in your own insecurity.”

            Both Tom and Fionn stared at him, their mouths hanging open a little.

            “What?” Jack asked, looking from one to the other. “It’s true, innit?”

 

* * *

 

After spending the duration of the next morning in a meeting with his team, he decided to walk around Piccadilly to find a place for lunch. He brought Lewis with him, and his puppy was trotting along in front of him on his lead, ignoring all of the people who stopped to coo at him.

“I’m so proud,” Fionn said to himself, pretending to be choked up. “Someone is getting a big treat when he gets home.”

As if he could understand what Fionn was saying, Lewis turned his head once to acknowledge Fionn before continuing down the sidewalk, sidestepping a toddler who tried to reach out for him. Some days he wasn’t sure if his dog was actually a dog or his soul in canine form.

He stopped at the crosswalk, blending in with the rest of the suits and tourists waiting for the signal to start walking across the street. People were closing in on him, and he bent down to scoop up Lewis. He zipped his jacket down a little and deposited Lewis inside for safekeeping, his fur tickling the underside of his jaw. When the little man blinked on, Fionn followed the flow of traffic, cradling Lewis’ bum inside of his jacket as he moved.

“How do we feel about a curry?” he asked Lewis. He turned to scan the shops on the other side of the intersection now. “Are they dog friendly? Maybe Nando’s—“

His train of thought was lost when Harry Styles appeared in front of his face.

Not actually Harry, he realized after a heart-stopping beat—a bus with Harry’s face, in profile, while he stared out of the window of a train car. Across the image were the words TWENTY FOURTH OF NOVEMBER and a single line of lyrics:

           

 _We’re running, running, running_.

          

* * *

 

 

“Harry’s new single,” Fionn was saying into his phone on the way to a flat he was meant to be viewing at four. “I saw an advert for it earlier today.”

“Cheers,” Tom said wryly. “So has most of the world.”

“It’s coming out tomorrow.”

“I know. He’s having a party at his to celebrate before he goes to Australia. I’m assuming you’re not coming.”

“I don’t think I’ll be welcomed.”

“Have you considered apologizing for accusing him of being a lying pig?”

“ _Actually_ , I was thinking I could send him flowers. To, you know, say congratulations.”

Tom sighed. “Honestly, Fionn, I don’t even know why Jack and I bother.”

“I’m not going round his house with a dumb sign.” He stopped in front of the building the flat was in and leaned against the brick garden wall. “Nor am I going to hold up my phone and play some cheesy song under his window—“

“Forget about all of that. Just be an adult. _Call him_.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Fionn said through his teeth, his frustration growing. “I don’t know what to say, and I don’t trust myself not to fuck it up. The flowers were the best I could come up with.”

“Wow, that is sad. They’re not personal enough. It doesn’t feel heartfelt.”

“Blimey, Tom. I’m not _proposing_.”

“Not with that attitude you’re not.“

“If you ever wonder why I don’t tell you things,” Fionn said, nodding at his real estate agent who was walking up the sidewalk towards him, “remember this conversation.”

The boys said goodbye, and Fionn followed his real estate agent up the stairs. Maybe it was all of the romantic comedies o his mind, but Fionn made the decision to move to Notting Hill. It seemed like a good compromise between a not-so-posh neighborhood and a safe neighborhood, and it would cut his commute in half. The last place they looked at in Chepstow Villas was gorgeous, but everything was white—the walls, the kitchen, the fixtures. He was looking at houses with the option to buy the furniture that was being used as staging, and there was something inherently wrong about a white couch.

This flat was on the ground floor, something that Fionn was hesitant about since it was easier for people to get to him being so close to the front door. He was about to tell the agent about this stipulation, hoping that there would be another vacancy on the property, when they stepped into the living area.

“Wow.” Fionn stood in front of the largest, most picturesque bay window he’d ever seen. It even came with a cushioned bench that he could easily picture Lewis claiming. He could see the street from beyond it, which was mostly empty and quiet besides a few of his would-be neighbors walking by. There wasn’t a paparazzi in sight.

It might’ve been perfect.

“And that’s not all,” The Agent said with a smile—one of those smiles that realtors smiled when they knew they trapped you. He motioned for Fionn to follow him, and they started back towards the galley kitchen, which boasted stainless steel appliances that intimated the hell out of him. “I know you said a garden was important, and the ground floor actually has it’s own private garden right through here.”

“Not a lot of green space,” Fionn said as they stepped out onto the back porch that seemed to expand over the entire garden area.

“Kensington Gardens isn’t too far away. They’re very dog friendly.”

“I suppose I could always get him a litter box.”

“That is an option,” The Agent said, still smiling. He was such a trooper. “Let’s look at the two bedrooms.”

At the end of the tour, Fionn felt like his skin was buzzing. Distantly, he was aware The Agent was telling him about the upgrades he could have done in the bathrooms if the fixtures weren’t to his liking, and how the owners were willing to throw in the price of the inspection, but he had troubling focusing. Very rarely did Fionn experience this—this _excitement_. The last time was when he got the call for the Dunkirk audition.

Every time The Agent showed him a new space in the flat, he could picture himself reading on that bench seat or watching rugby with his mates in the den. It was probably more space than he needed, and the walls weren’t thin enough to hear his neighbors, but he had a good feeling about it.

He could do this. He really, really thought he could do this.

They stepped into the hallway outside, and Fionn stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I want to put in an offer.”

“Excellent,” The Agent said, That Smile back in full force. “Then I’ll head back to the office and give them a call.”

Fionn nodded, and they shook hands, making Fionn feel much more like an adult than he usually did. “Thank you.”

“I’ll ring you when the owner makes a decision,” The Agent promised before pulling out his phone and heading out.

Exiting the building, he adjusted his cap over his hair and started walking in the other direction without any real purpose. He already did everything he needed to do today, and he didn’t have anyone at home expecting him. The thought filled him with unexpected sadness. He never used to be one of those people that needed to be in a relationship—never wanted to depend on another person or have to deal with the constant worry.

Except—well, except with Harry.

He decided to grab a coffee when he heard someone call his name. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, just as a boy and girl, both a little older than he was, started towards him, waving enthusiastically.

“Fionn!” she said again, grinning. “OhmyGod, it’s _so_ good to see you!”

His brows furrowed. He tried to place her face but was coming up short. “Oh, um, do I—?”

“No, no,” she laughed. She laced her fingers through the boy’s, who gave Fionn a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry. We don’t know you personally. We’re big fans though. _Huge_ fans. We saw your Queers monologue and adored it.”

“It was brilliant,” the boy agreed.

Fionn arched a brow. “My monologue. Not Dunkirk?”

“We haven’t had the chance to see it yet,” she said. “But we will! I’m sure you’re fantastic in it as well.”

“I—thank you,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Um, really. Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” she said, beaming at him. She tugged on her boyfriend’s hand and to him, said, “We should go. We’re already late.”

“Yeah,” the boy said, offering his other hand to Fionn. “It was a pleasure, mate. We’ve been following your career since we watched HIM. You’re going to do big things. I’ve got my money on you getting a BAFTA.”

Robotically, Fionn shook his hand, this throat tightening. “Wow. I—thank you.”

“See you,” the girl said, waving, as she started tugging on her boyfriend’s hand again.

“Did you, um, not want a picture?” he asked awkwardly before they could turn away, scratching the back of his neck. He felt like he was doing this all very wrong, and he didn’t want them to go away feeling like they were denied a good experience.

She laughed but not unkindly. “No, no. That’s okay. We’re just glad we ran into you.”

“Then thank you for your support. Truly,” Fionn said, nodding to both of them. He lifted his hand in a weird, little wave as he started to back away. “Have a good one.”

He took a few steps before looking over his shoulder. They were still standing there, and she was hugging her boyfriend, jumping up and down in excitement. Turning back around, he continued down the sidewalk, and he couldn’t help the little smile that crept up his face. Usually, his fan experiences weren’t the best; they left him drained and uncomfortable and introspective instead of energized like it did for people like Harry, who was born for these sorts of things. When he pictured meeting fans, he pictured screaming crowds and cameras being shoved in his face and being forced to hug a stranger.

But what happened wasn’t any of that—it was having a conversation and being able to express his thanks without feeling like he was an attraction rather than a person. Having his boundaries respected. Harry always said that one day his fans will feel like his friends, but he thought he was talking out of his arse as he tended to do. He had no idea he could feel this way.

For the first time since the movie came out, he felt as if he could handle this fame thing a little bit better now if he learned how to take the good with the bad.

 

* * *

 

"Darling?” Mum called when he let himself into the house. He dropped his keys on the side table. “Fionn darling, can you come into the kitchen please?”

“Sure.” He walked through the living room, stopping long enough to scratch the top of Lewis’ head as he snoozed on the ottoman. When he walked into the kitchen, she was sitting at the table with two mugs of tea. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“That tea’s not for you,” she said. “Your friend came by.”

“Which friend?”

“Harry.”

He went rigid, his hand hovering over the back of a chair. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your other friend—that lovely one, Tom—told him you were staying with me,” she told him. The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she was recalling something from earlier. “We had a wonderful chat. He’s quite charming.”

“Mum, please,” he sighed, pulling out the chair. “What did you say to him?”

“This and that,” she said, shrugging. She hesitated a moment before adding, “I told him about your father passing. I didn’t realize you never mentioned it.”

“I don’t make a habit of telling people.”

“His step-father—“

“I wasn’t going to start talking about my loss when he was suffering his own,” Fionn said quietly. Under the table, Lewis flopped down by his feet. He looked down at the mug that must’ve been Harry’s to find it empty except for the ring at the bottom stained from his tea. “How long did he stay?”

“Long enough. Actually, we’re going to get lunch next month after he’s done touring Asia.”

“ _What_?”

“I like him very much, darling. He’s invited us to his party tomorrow as well, but I’ve got a double tomorrow. You’ll go for us, right?” Mum asked as she got to her feet. She patted Fionn’s arm as he clutched Harry’s mug. “He could use all the support. I’ve got to get ready for work. There are leftover cakes on the counter. Harry bought them from a bakery he loves. I think you’ll like them.”

 

* * *

 

 

On the day of, he was sitting on the tube when he heard it for the first time. He forgot his earphones at home, and he was sat huddled in the corner, trying not to bring attention to himself. A couple girls were staring at him, and his leg was shaking as he waited for the next stop so he could get off.

           

_In a crowded pub_

_Drunk off your attention._

_I turn my head and you’re looking at me._

_It’s like you only see me._

_You don’t know how much I want you to see me_.

 

The second time he heard it, he was in John Lewis looking at homeware bits for the new flat. He just finished filming his scene for the day, and despite himself, he was going over every second, trying to figure out if it was the best he could’ve done. Tom was supposed to meet him and help him pick out cushions and light fixtures, but he had an emergency to handle and bailed, which left Fionn to silently agonize over his work while looking at fabric swatches.

 

_Close your eyes,_

_Put your hand in mine._

_Put your trust in me._

_Oh, I don’t want to say goodbye._

_Ooh, I want more than just a night._

 

The third time, he was in the back of an Uber on his way to the theater to pick up the new revised script the directors emailed him about. It was the third script in so many weeks, and he was starting to regret taking on the project. He turned towards the window and watched the colors of the tourists and buses blur past him, trying to talk himself out of quitting and ruining his barely existent reputation.

           

_Time is running out,_

_And we’re running with it._

_We’re running, running, running_.

 

“New Harry Styles tune,” his driver said absently, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Me daughter’s mad for him. Practically begged me to buy his new album—both the vinyl and the CD—which of course meant she needed to see the lad live as well. I reckon most of my earnings go to ‘em—as if he needs it—“

“Excuse me,” Fionn said, sitting forward. His stomach started to twist itself in knots. “I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind turning it up? I—I haven’t heard it yet—“

 

_I’ve been chasing you for days,_

_When will sorry be enough?_

_I’ve been calling your name,_

_Hoping I’m not too late_.

 

He slumped back, suddenly feeling lightheaded. How oblivious was he today? He could never forget the way Harry’s voice sounded when he sings—like syrup, warm and dawdling and rich—and yet he was sure he’s heard this song already. A few times actually. It never registered that _this_ was Harry’s.

That there’s a good chance that it was also Fionn’s too.

There was an explanation for this. There had to be. Fionn was projecting. There’s someone else in Harry’s life in a similar situation with him as Fionn was. It was all just wishful thinking.

Even if the lyrics could’ve been about their relationship, Harry wouldn’t have released a song about him after everything that Fionn’s done to him.

These are the things he told himself as he tried to calm down in the backseat of that Uber.

He tried to get ahold of Tom again, but his calls went right to voicemail every time. He would have called Jack, but he knew that Jack would only tell him to call Harry and that was the last thing he could do right now. The car pulled up in front of the theater just as Nick Grimshaw came through the radio, a grin in his voice:

“Now wasn’t that just lovely? Harry Styles actually called me the night after he wrote—oh, shut up, Fiona, let me show off a bit—absolutely buzzing about it. Buzzing so much that he practically _begged_ me to play it every hour on the hour. Let’s hope the lucky one our favorite chanteuse is so broken up about hears it then…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I'm not Harry Styles. Nor can I write song lyrics like Harry Styles. I tried though, which is all we can ever ask for. 
> 
> Anyway, we're nearly there, guys!! Fionn's making all of the discoveries so fingers crossed he gets it together, right?
> 
> Side blog: mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your patience. 
> 
> enjoy.

            “It’s trending on Twitter,” Tom announced, setting his phone down on the table. After Fionn finally managed to get in touch with him, he told him to meet him at a nearby bakery. He felt like he was on the precipice of a breakdown, and Tom was the only one who could talk him down right now. If he went home, he’d have to face his mum, who was most definitely planning his wedding to Harry right now.

           They found a place outside to sit, and Fionn had his back to the street, his cap pulled low over his face. A few girls seemed to pause when they saw them, but Tom turned his face discreetly and they eventually moved on.

            Fionn picked at the pound cake that he let Tom convince him into getting, crumbs decorating the porcelain, white plate. “Brilliant.”

            “You had to know that would happen. It’s Harry,” he said as he swiped a piece of cake. He stuffed it in his mouth and chewed before adding, “No one seems to have put two-and-two together though. They think it’s about some model.”

            He rolled his eyes as he pushed the plate away from him. “Even better.”

            “Fionn, enough.”

            “I’m not doing anything.”

            “Fine. Tell me what we’re going to do about the song.”

            “We don’t even know if it’s about me.”

            “You make it so hard to be your friend sometimes,” Tom said, sighing. His black sunglasses reflected Fionn’s face. He looked exhausted. Drained. “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think it was about you.”

           He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I think—I think I just miss him.”

          When he lowered his hands, Tom was staring at him with a strange grin on his face. “Did you just admit that?”

          “I’m having issues with the size of the gesture,” Fionn said, “not the gesture itself. I don’t even know—how do I compete with that? What could I possibly offer him?”

          “You,” Tom said simply. “All he wants is you, Fionn. And if you want my opinion, I think you’re bloody fantastic.”

 

* * *

 

           It was the second time in a week that Fionn found himself lurking outside of Harry Styles’ home—something that, if you told him a year ago this was his reality, he would’ve laughed in your face. He looked down at the button up top his mum told him to wear and the flowers he picked up, feeling like a teenager picking up his date for the first time.

           He felt pathetic turning up at Harry’s with flowers, as if it even compared to what he’s done for Fionn, but he couldn’t dwell on that anymore. There might always be an inequality in their relationship, but Fionn couldn’t let it define him. He had to trust that Harry wanted him.

            At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

            Tom poked his spine. “Come on. Go in. It’ll be fine.”

            “Give me a minute.”

            “I’ve given you ten. I’m cold. Jack’s been blowing up my phone because he doesn’t know anyone inside—“

            “Fine.” He wiped his sweaty palm on his plaid trousers that were still stiff from being ironed. He wore them during press, and Harry said he liked them. At the time, Fionn laughed it off and resolved to never wearing them again, positive that Harry was messing with him like he was always trying to do.

            “You look great,” Tom assured him, squeezing his shoulder before nudging him towards the door.

            “You’re like my fairy godmother,” Fionn said dryly as they stepped over the threshold. He shook his head when a server tried to offer him a flute of champagne on a silver platter that Tom took instead.

            His friend took a sip before saying, “With better shoes, I hope.”

            “Of course.” They walked into the TV room, where one of Harry’s shows was being played on the flat screen. Every person that Harry seemed to know floated around them looking expensive and flashy in their designer clothes. Everyone seemed to know each other, or at least pretended that they knew each other, and he couldn’t turn around without catching another group of people taking a picture together on their iPhones.

            There was a time that Fionn would have worried about what he looked like surrounded by these people, knowing that he’d never compare, but something slowly started to change after he realized that Harry wrote this song about him. He could no longer convince himself that Harry didn’t take him or his feeling seriously. Even if he still released the song simply because he was proud of it, at one point he _did_ feel that way. He remembered what Harry said about songwriting—that it was always personal to him. How, when he was in the band, he never felt like he was giving his all during writing sessions because he couldn’t put all of his private experiences into a song sung by four other people. He used to say that he was his most honest when he was writing. A small, terrible part of him used to feel so jealous of those people that Harry wrote about.

            He left Tom so his friend could find Jack and started to wander the rest of the house. The last time he was here, he was too wrapped up in finding Harry to look around properly. He told himself that he was just looking around when he was really trying to buy a little more time before he had to confront Harry—confront whatever it was this thing between them had become.

            People were starting to stare at the flowers he was still carrying, but he didn’t want to leave them somewhere and let them get damaged. They only cost five quid, and Harry’s probably received much bigger and better bouquets, but Fionn tried not to think about it. He liked his little daisies, and he thought Harry might, too.

            Stepping into the next room, Fionn froze in the doorway. He knew that Harry was an avid collector, but he had no idea how eclectic his tastes really were. The entire room was covered with works of art. There were a lot of urban art pieces, mostly street style prints, but there was also a ton of paintings—millions of pounds worth of paintings. He walked over to an abstract one of what he thought was Kate Moss and wondered why Harry even had it.

            Abruptly, a glass shatter somewhere, and he looked over his shoulder.

            He sucked in a breath. Harry was standing on the other side of the room, surrounded by a group of people that he didn’t seem to be listening to. His eyes were locked on Fionn’s face. They dropped to the flowers Fionn was still clutching in his hand, and his mouth curved into a small smile.

            He excused himself from his friends before he crossed the room to where Fionn was standing. Fionn’s mouth went dry at the sight of him walking towards him. His hair was longer now and flopping all over the place in that way only Harry could pull off, reminding Fionn of the press tour. He had been so enamored by Harry then, trying to hide it by ignoring him or brushing him off. How naïve was he to think that he could pretend he didn’t feel something more for Harry even then.

            The rest of the room seemed to fall away, and it was just them—just this moment that would decide how this night would go.

            “You’ve heard it then,” Harry said in lieu of greeting, stopping to stand directly in front of him. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement of fact, but Fionn didn’t think he was being cocky about it. More like he knew that the only explanation for Fionn being here was because he heard it.

            “On the tube. At John Lewis. In my Uber,” Fionn told him with a wry smile.

            Harry’s expression turned sheepish. “Did you like it?”

            “Are you really asking me that?” Fionn asked as he held out the flowers to him.

            Harry’s eyes softened as he took them from him. “I still need to hear you say it.”

            “Of course I liked it,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. All at once, he was transported back to Harry’s kitchen, when he listened to Harry’s album all the way through for the first time. He knew that Harry was anxious then, but this felt different. “I probably would have liked it even if it was shite though so my judgments a little skewed.”

            Harry ran his fingers through his hair, a kind of mad look in his eyes, like he was on the verge of losing it. “I just know you don’t like big gestures, and you don’t like the spotlight, but I _needed_ you to hear it—“

            “Harry, it’s fine,” Fionn said. He didn’t say that the statement Harry made meant that no one even considered it being about Fionn and saved him from being hounded. “None of that matters. Can we talk?”

            His mouth twitched. “I’ve waited long enough for this, I suppose. We can go in the back garden. Let me put these in water first.”

            Harry disappeared out of the room but not before Fionn caught him bring the flowers to his nose and sniff them. Fionn felt his mouth curl into a smile.

            Hope, small and fragile and wonderful, wiggled its way into his heart.

            When Harry came back, Fionn followed him into the dining room and out the double doors onto his veranda. There were tiers of greenery that acted as a back wall at the back of the garden, and a good amount of grass for a house in North London that wasn’t out in the countryside. No one was outside because of the cold, even with the heat lamps on, but the fire pit was still on. Harry led him to one of the couches that surrounded it and sat down, watching as Fionn sat a good amount of space away from him.

            “It’s quite lovely out here,” Fionn said if only to have something to say, as he wrapped his arms around himself. “Shame it’s too cold—“

            “Here.” He slipped off his navy coat and placed it over Fionn’s shoulders before he could protest. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

            “Right. I, um—“ He cleared his throat. “I guess I wanted to apologize.”

            Harry arched a brow. “Oh?”

            “I’ve been an arse,” Fionn said, “and I’m sorry I made my problems your problems.”

            “I’m not blameless.”

            “But I didn’t make things any easier for you.”

            “Yeah, well, I didn’t give you a lot of reasons to trust me and still expected you to.”

            “You were right though; I kept making you work for it without any intention of changing my own behavior.”

            “I talked to your mum about all of that actually,” Harry said, looking a little embarrassed. “I came by because I wanted to warn you about the single, but she said you were out for the afternoon.”

            “She told me you came by. You’ll have to tell me where you got those cakes.” He ended up eating three of them that night and sat in his bed surrounded by crumbs and his own misery.

            Harry smiled faintly. “I’ll take you there soon. I’m sorry you had to move out of your flat.”

            Fionn shrugged. “I would have needed to eventually anyway. It was for the best. I needed to work through some things with my mum.”

            “She’s a lovely woman. We’re going to lunch—“

            “Next month. Yeah. I know.”

            “I’d love for you to join us.”

            Fionn had to fight back his own smile. “I could be convinced.”

            “I—you know, Tom told me something the other night. He said you were upset about—about that whole thing last month when I called Jeff,” he said quietly. “And Fionn, I never wanted you to think I was ashamed of you.”

            “I know you didn’t,” Fionn said. “I didn’t before, but I understand now.”

            Harry stared at him, his eyes searching Fionn’s face. Without a word, he held his hand out to him—a peace offering and a challenge. Like he wanted Fionn to prove if he meant what he said, and he wasn’t doing to put his own heart on the line anymore.

            Fionn didn’t hesitate to slip his fingers through Harry’s, which were still warm despite the frigid air. Gently, Harry tugged him closer, his other hand cupping Fionn’s cheek. His thumb brushed his face, and his already large pupils dilated as he looked down at Fionn. He was gentle—achingly so. Fionn wanted so badly to deserve this, to accept that Harry believed that he did.

            “This is how I feel,” Harry said as he brought their joined hands to his chest. He pressed Fionn’s hand against where his heart was, which was beating rapidly. “There’s no one else for me. There _hasn’t_ _been_ anyone else.”

            His brows pulled together. “But there were those girls—“

            “I can’t control what people write about me,” Harry said sharply. He took a deep breath before saying, “Fionn, I wrote your song a week after Tom’s play, and I’ve been powering through finishing it ever since. Ask Mitch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as anxious as I’ve made him these past couple months.

            “I’m just…so sorry if I made you think I wanted to keep you a secret,” he said, dropping his eyes. “When that picture of us came out, all I wanted to do was protect you. I’ve seen my fame hurt the people I love, Fionn. I panicked. I couldn’t stand to let that happen to you.”

           His face crumbled. “Harry—“

            “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not the good guy because of that. _Don’t_ think that I’m the good guy because of that. I was still an absolute twat. I went about it all wrong, and I shouldn’t have made decisions without talking to you. I shouldn’t have assumed what was best for you or what you would have wanted.”

            “Maybe not,” Fionn said, “but I think we’ve established we’re both shite at this.”

            “What I said to you in the bathroom—I meant it, Fionn. It’s been a long time since I was in a relationship, and to be honest, I’m a terrible boyfriend. I can’t let myself hurt you. I don’t _want_ to hurt you—“

            “So don’t,” he said. He scooted closer to Harry, who hooked one of his legs around Fionn’s easily—as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him. They were both so needy, so dependent on physical contact to show how much they feel. “Don’t think about hurting me.”

            “I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” Harry said, resting his forehead against Fionn’s. He could feel Harry’s breath on his face. The cold didn’t even register anymore. “But I’d really, really like to try.”

            “Ah, well, I’ll have to think about it—“ He trailed off as a grin spread over his face—teeth and all.

            Harry’s eyes softened. He gripped Fionn’s chin lightly and titled his face up towards his. “No more running, right?”

            “No more running,” he agreed right before Harry’s mouth found his. They clung to one another, the knowledge that this didn’t have to be their last kiss hitting them both at the same time. Harry wasn’t being whisked away to a different country just yet, and Fionn wasn’t making up reasons to disappear on him. Neither of them was rushing this. They had all the time in the world if they wanted it.

            “I like you, Fionn Whitehead,” Harry whispered. “I like you so goddamn much.”

            Fionn smiled against Harry’s mouth. “Fionn? Not Finley?”

            “Not Finley,” Harry said. “Never Finley again.”

            When they walked back into the party, everyone immediately erupted into applause, as if they’d walked into a surprise party. Harry was grinning, his face flushed and his dimples out, and it might’ve been the best thing Fionn had ever seen. Without hesitation, he leaned forward and kissed one of them, making Harry smile even wider.

 

* * *

 

            “Thanks for coming,” Harry said, standing by the door as his last group of guests walked out. “Oi, don’t linger! Get in your cars—alright, thank you so much for coming! Drive safe!”

            Fionn chuckled from where he sat on the stairs. “So not obvious, Harry.”

            “I’ve waited months for this,” he said as he shut the door and locked it. “Tonight, I want to spend time with my boyfriend.”

            “Spend time, huh?” Fionn teased as he got up. He stood a step above Harry, and for once, that meant he was a few inches taller than Harry was.

            Harry wrapped his arms around his middle and tilted his face up towards Fionn’s, widening his eyes innocently. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

            Fionn kissed Harry’s forehead before whispering, “I only have one condition.”

            “My unconditional love?” Harry asked as he pressed a kiss to Fionn’s collarbone.

            “No,” he said when Harry kissed him again by his Adam’s apple. “I want you to sing for me.”

            Harry tensed. “Oh, uh.”

            “I’m sorry,” Fionn said, fighting back a smile, “is Harry Styles _shy_?”

            “Well, you didn’t pay for a ticket so—“

            “Hey, if it’s too intimate…”

            “You’re awful,” Harry sighed. He laced his fingers through Fionn’s and tugged him down the step. “Let’s go. I need to get my guitar.”

            “There wasn’t a guitar in the song.”

            “Yeah, well, I don’t keep string orchestras lying around the house unfortunately.”

            “And here I thought I was special.”

            Harry stopped walking and then Fionn was being pushed against the wall, Harry’s hand catching the back of his skull before it could hit the wall. He barely had a moment to catch his breath before Harry’s mouth was on his, and his hands held his hips in place. Fionn slipped his hands underneath Harry’s shirt, feeling the ridges and bumps underneath. Harry’s fingers wrapped around Fionn’s wrist and pulled his hand lower, lower, lower, until his hand brushed against the hardness in Harry’s trousers. Fionn sucked in a sharp breath. With the heel of his palm, he rubbed against his erection, and Harry groaned.

             Fionn started to work on his button when he felt Harry start to squirm.

            “Wait, wait, wait,” Harry said against his mouth as he pulled away. “Hold on. I wanted—I wanted to say that you _are_ special, Fionn. Not just because of this stuff but because of _everything_ that make you feel.”

            “It’s not fair,” Fionn said, laughing as he curled his shaky fingers around the waistband of Harry’s pants. “You’re a bloody songwriter.”

            “Aw, are you not going to wax poetic for me?” Harry asked with a grin. He kissed Fionn again quickly, too quickly, before he took a step back. He didn’t let go of Fionn’s hand. “Come on. I still need to sing for my boyfriend.”

            “Second time in less than ten minutes that you’ve called me that,” Fionn said, though he was grinning goofily. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked me.”

            In one of the rooms off of the hallway, Harry housed all of his favorite guitars and a baby grand. It was an absolute dream—a room he could’ve seen himself get lost in when he was younger. Fionn would have given anything to have his dad see Harry’s music room.

            The walls were adorned with plaques and pictures from back when Harry was in the band, and an entire bookshelf was filled with awards that the five of them won together. Seeing it all like this, he had to admit it was incredible what they’ve all accomplished in such a short amount of time. It didn’t fail to amaze him that Harry managed to still be utterly and completely normal despite it all.

            “I wish I knew you then,” Fionn said, pointing to the picture of them huddled on a couch together like puppies in a pile. Harry was wearing an awful pair of trainers and a mismatched sweat suit, but there was no denying how content he was to be sitting there with the others.

            Harry looked over his shoulder to see what picture he was referring to and wrinkled his nose. “No you didn’t. You wouldn’t have given me the time of day.”

            “I dunno about that.” He paused dramatically, tilting his head to the side in a way that would’ve made Tom proud. “Well, maybe if you didn’t talk.”

            “Ha-ha. Come sit.” He tugged on Fionn’s hand and pulled him over to a plush pink ottoman that he pushed into the center of the room. He grabbed the acoustic guitar that was leaning against the wall and plopped down on the desk chair, spinning it to face Fionn. “Ready?”

            Fionn pointed at one of guitars hanging off of the wall. “Can I?”

            Harry’s brows rose. “You play?”

            “A bit,” he said, keeping his voice even.

            “Be my guest. Let me grab the sheet music.”

            While Harry started rifling through the pile of papers on the desk, Fionn went over to the wall of guitars and took the Gibson he’s seen Harry play during his TV appearances. It was lighter than he expected, and the surface shined as if it was polished every single day. He could feel Harry’s eyes on him as he sat back on the ottoman and set the guitar on his lap.

            Harry handed him the sheet music.

“It’s simple,” he told him. “Start with D.”

            “Got it,” Fionn said before leaning closer to the strings, plucking lightly. “Little out of tune.”

            He narrowed his eyes at Fionn. “How come you never told me you could play?”

            “You never asked,” Fionn shrugged as he tried to find the right note for E.

            His mouth thinned, but he nodded anyway, turning to his guitar. “Okay. 1, 2, 3, 4…”

 

* * *

 

            Later that night, Fionn laid in bed with Harry, their legs tangled together under the satin sheets. He traced his finger along the lines of Harry’s swallows tattoo. The smell of lavender and vanilla encompassed the room from one of Harry’s fancy candles he lit.

            He was happy.

            As Harry’s heart beat steadily under his ear, he felt unbelievably and absolutely happy. In the back of his mind, he knew that sex with Harry would be good, but he never considered _how good_ it could be.

           But it was more than just the sex. Fionn had never been asked if he was okay during sex. He had never been asked if something felt good or if he liked something. It was a small thing, but he’d never forget how Harry looked him in the eyes when he asked him if he was sure before they kept going. It was the fact that Harry knew where Fionn’s lines were drawn, and he never once tried to overstep them. It was Harry caring enough about Fionn to take care of him, to know what this level of vulnerability meant to him.

            It was the fact that after it was all done, Harry tucked Fionn into him instead of disappearing like Fionn was always scared he might do.

            “Tell me about your dad,” Harry said suddenly, breaking the silence.

            Fionn lifted his head. “What do you want to know?”

            “Everything,” Harry said before leaning over to press a kiss to Fionn’s cheek. “I want to know everything.”

            “He was—“ Fionn took a deep breath as he settled back into a pillow, pulling the sheet higher over his shoulder. “He was my absolute hero. He never sat still. Some days, I’d be sitting in the lounge, and he’d come sliding down the railing with his saxophone, playing a song he wrote the night before. Every day was a new adventure, and I woke up every morning just to see what he had in store for us.

            “When he died, I had to face the reality that Dad wasn’t this mystical being sent to sing me songs and take me on adventures,” he said. “He was just a person—the best person I’ve ever met but still. A person.”

            “Is that why you left?”

            “In part. I couldn’t stand being in that house, around my mum. It was too much.” He paused, and Harry squeezed his hand, urging him on. “I spent so long being angry with her, I didn’t stop to think my coping methods weren’t exactly healthy either.”

            “For someone who is only twenty,” Harry said, tucking Fionn’s hair behind his ear, “you’re very wise.”

            “I really wish you could’ve met him. I think he would’ve really liked you.”

            Harry smiled Fionn’s favorite smile before asking, “What were you like? As a kid I mean.”

            “I was…weird,” Fionn admitted. “I liked what I liked, and I didn’t make much of an effort with other people.”

            “So not much has changed, huh?” Harry said with a smirk.

            Fionn flicked his bicep. “What about you?”

            “I was a little show boat,” he said, catching Fionn’s fingers and bringing them to his mouth. He brushed his lips across Fionn’s palm. “I realized fairly quickly that I was good at most things I tried, and I loved to entertain people. Everywhere I went—school, family parties, work—I was putting on some kind of show.”

            “So not much has changed, huh?”

            “Oi, get out of my bed.”

            “Well, alright—“ He started to scoot backwards, but Harry scrambled to throw his arm around Fionn’s waist and pulled him even closer.

            He pouted his lip. “I was kidding.”

            “I know,” Fionn said, brushing his nose against Harry’s. “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

            Harry cupped the side of his face and kissed him softly. “I’m so happy. I didn’t think I could be this bloody happy.”

            “Really?” Fionn asked. “Because I knew all along.”

            “Ay, cheek- _ey_ ,” Harry said, singing the last syllable. He tucked Fionn’s head in the crook of his neck, burying his face into his hair. “Mm. Nice.”

            “Sleepy?”

            “Mm.”

            “Hey.” He pulled away and patted Harry’s cheek. “Stay awake for a moment. I have a question.”

            Harry opened one eye to peak at him. “What’s that?”

            “What about tomorrow? Your friends all know about us now. Should we—I dunno, should we do something?”

            “Like what?”

            “Jeff?”

            “No, I have a better idea.” He leaned over and grabbed his phone off of the nightstand, tugging the charger out of the port. The screen illuminated his face, and he had to squint his eyes against the sudden brightness. His eyes flickered to FIonn’s. “I want to take a picture of you. Put it on my Instagram.”

            Fionn’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

            “We can control it ourselves, no one else. We’ll give as much as we want, or nothing at all if that’s what you choose that day. No statements, no pap walks.” When Fionn didn’t say anything, he lowered his phone. “If you’re not comfortable—“

            “No, I just—what kind of picture? Harry, we’re naked.”

            “Such a prude,” Harry said, trying and failing to not grin. He pushed himself up onto his elbow, holding his phone out. “Stay on your side. Yeah. Now lay your head down on the pillow.”

            Fionn looked up at Harry, half of his face snuggled into the pillow. “Good?”

            “Perfect. Now close your eyes, love.” A little sliver of tongue poked out of Harry’s mouth as he hovered a little above Fionn, the phone blocking his face. Fionn felt himself smile as he slowly closed his eyes, nestling his face a little more into the pillow. “Okay, I think I’ve got it. Come see.”

            Harry held his arm out for Fionn, and he scooted into him, resting his cheek and hand on Harry’s chest as Harry showed him the pictures. Because the room was so dark besides the candles that Harry had lit, Fionn was barely distinguishable, except for his dark hair and pale skin and hoop earring. It was almost romantic the way Harry captured him—the sheet over his shoulder, the soft smile on his face. There was no doubt that whoever it was, this was something different.

            Something more.

            “Here.” Fionn took the phone and typed only one word. _Smile_.

            After Harry hit post, he set his phone down and tilted Fionn’s mouth towards his. This time, when the world imploded, they would deal with the fallout together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnd that's a wrap! 
> 
> just kidding. the epilogue is up next, and if any of you were feeling a little jipped out of a certain scene at the end, have no fear! the ride is not over yet, friends. 
> 
> also. i start classes again tomorrow, and this semester is shaping up to be the last awful hurdle to graduation in the spring. i know it took a while for this update, but i want to warn you all that it'll probably be a similar wait time. 
> 
> thanks for sticking with this story (and all of my inevitable typos) and for all of your nice comments. this chapter was tough for me to write for different reasons than the last one, and i'm always grateful for the continued support. 
> 
> side blog: mymoonandstyles.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You should walk away with me  
> In your heart  
> Keep me in your mind  
> You don't have to speak  
> Of our past, just  
> Keep me in your life
> 
> Keep Me x Khalid
> 
> *there are time jumps between parts*

_2018_

 

            “Fionn? Where’s Lewis?”

            “In the back garden,” Fionn called from the kitchen, sliding his knife across the chopping board to add the veggies into the pan. They hit the olive oil with a sizzle and the smell of garlic and bell peppers wafted in the air. “You come home late on our anniversary and the first thing you do is ask after the bloody dog. Is that the story you want to go with?”

            Harry appeared in the doorway with a sheepish smile and a bouquet of flowers. Lilies. Fionn’s mum’s favorites.

            “Sorry, love,” He said as he dipped in to kiss his cheek. He set the flowers on the counter and wrapped his arms around Fionn, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Happy one year anniversary.”

            Fionn turned his face towards Harry’s, his nose brushing against his cheek. “Nu uh. You’re still sleeping on the couch.”

            “When’s your mum coming round?” Harry asked as he reached around to swipe a tomato.

            “Right after her shift.”

            “Then I’ll go get the dining table ready—“

            Fionn turned and grabbed Harry’s hand before he could walk away. “Already did it. Rehearsal ended early and I had the time.”

            “Then I’ll start the grill—“

            “I’ve roasted the corn already, Harry.”

            “Well, the upstairs is a mess—“

“Not anymore. I’ve taken care of everything, Harry. Relax.”

            He scratched the back of his head, his eyes a little faraway. His panic was a tangible thing, sucking all of the air out of the room. “Mum and Gemma should be arriving soon.”

            “It’ll be fine,” Fionn assured him, squeezing his hand. “You worry too much.”

            “I just want them to get along.”

            “They will.”

            “And if they don’t?”

            “Then they’ll have the good grace to at least pretend to,” he said as he turned back to the stove.

            Harry huffed. “It’s infuriating how easy going you are. Aren’t you a BAFTA award-winning actor? Shouldn’t you have a flare for the dramatics?”

            “That’s what you’re for,” Fionn said, his mouth twitching. Harry couldn’t go a day without bringing up his BAFTA. “I put a bottle of wine in the fridge to chill. Go open it and give your hands something to do.”

            Harry’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “I can think of a few things to do with my hands.”

            “Harry,” Fionn warned, pointing the wooden spoon at him. “I’ll never forgive you if you let me burn this roast. Mum laughed when I told her you weren’t cooking tonight, and I can’t let her be right.”

            “Fine, I’ll be good,” Harry promised, though it meant next to nothing coming from him. Ever since the second leg of his tour had finished, he became even needier than usual, which didn’t bother Fionn _at first_ since he spent most of that time when he was traveling missing him.

            Now that it’s been months since Harry came home for good, Fionn was starting to wonder if he ever planned on working again. He hadn’t talked about a project in a very long time, nor has he mentioned getting back into the studio. Fionn wasn’t worried about the money; he was worried that something must be seriously wrong if Harry wasn’t throwing himself back into work, and he just wasn’t telling Fionn.

            Tonight wasn’t the time to worry about it. Harry was already nervous as it was about their families meeting for the first time, and Fionn wasn’t going to put him in a bad mood. Things had been good between them—better than good. There were a few months when Harry was touring and Fionn was on set that neither of them could talk nor see each other much. He tried to ignore how much the distance stung, how every morning he forgot that Harry was gone and he was hit by the ugly reality of it again and again. He would’ve given anything to have Harry back, and now that he was, he felt like he was being ungrateful for wishing for space.

            While Harry started to measure out their puppy’s dinner, Fionn slipped on a pair of mismatched oven mitts and pulled open the over door to get his roast. The bird still needed half an hour to rest, and he left Harry in the kitchen to upstairs to his— _their_ —bedroom.

            It’s only been a few months since they moved into their new house together. There was an unspoken agreement that while Fionn loved Harry’s London home, he wasn’t keen on living alone for part of the year in a house that size. The compromise ended up with Fionn subletting his flat—his beautiful, perfect flat—while Harry simply sold his own London residence without batting an eye. The media went into a frenzy when they realized that Fionn still owned his flat, saying that he was keeping an “out,” that their relationship was already set up to fail. Harry pretended like none of it bothered him, but Fionn knew. He knew that Harry wanted him to sell his flat, to make that commitment to him, to this.

          He just didn’t think that moving in with Harry would be so…claustrophobic. Realistically, he realized Harry had a lot of stuff. His houses were enormous, and he had more clothes than he knew what to do with considering he wore the same sweatshirt four days in a row. But Fionn told himself that it was fine, that he was glad to have him there every night and every morning. _A relationship was compromise,_ he reminded himself some days. _You love Harry_ , he said over and over again when he walked into the bathroom and saw the mess of toothpaste in the sink. _When he was on tour, you were miserable_ became his mantra as he swept up the leaves that Harry always managed to trail inside.

           He kicked a pair of boots that Harry left out by the closet, swallowing the irritation that rose up like bile.

            He wouldn’t pick a fight. Not today.

            “Not today,” he said under his breath as he pushed open the closet door and kicked them inside. “Not today—“

            “What’s not today?” Harry asked, startling Fionn.

            He spun around, eyes widening at the sight of Harry standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. “What are you doing up here?”

            “I wanted to change my shirt,” he said, tugging at the red top he wore. He started undoing the buttons, his long fingers getting the buttons through the slits easily. “Is there something wrong?”

            “No,” Fionn said, transfixed by the sight of Harry’s skin.

            Harry shrugged out of his shirt. “Then why are you talking to yourself?”

            “I was just—trying to remind myself of something from work—“

            “Why are you lying to me now?”

            “I don’t want to fight with you. Our family will be over any minute now—“

            “Not everything has to end in a fight because we’re disagreeing about something,” Harry said, as he sauntered over to the wardrobe for a fresh shirt. “But it will if you lie to me about it.”

            Fionn’s jaw tensed. “Stop patronizing me.”

            “I’m not patronizing you,” Harry said, his eyes widening, which only made Fionn more irritated.

            “Always innocent, right?” Fionn shook his head. “I said I didn’t want to fight, but you never listen to me.”

            “Fine,” Harry said as he tugged on a new shirt—a polka dot shirt that Fionn bought him for his birthday this year. It was Burberry, and one of the most expensive things Fionn had ever purchased in his life besides his house. It was his favorite shirt on Harry, especially when he cuffed the sleeves like he was doing right now.

            “You’re doing this on purpose,” Fionn said.

            “We’re in a fight,” Harry said as he walked towards the door, brushing past Fionn, “and I never said I fight fair, love.”

 

* * *

 

            The tension between Harry and Fionn was so bad that their families both had to overcompensate to make up for it. He tried to smile when Anne complimented his roast, but he couldn’t even feel proud that he managed to pull it off because Harry refused to look him in the eye when he asked him to pass the mash. He could feel his mum staring at him, but he kept his eyes on his plate of food, which he mostly pushed around instead of eating.

            As usual, Harry was the perfect host, keeping the conversation going and including everyone—except Fionn. When Anne tried to ask Fionn about his movie coming out next month, Harry cut over him and asked his sister about her promotion at work—her promotion from two months ago. She tried to give Harry a look, but he was oblivious, taking another sip from his wine, which was either his forth or fifth glass.

           Not that Fionn was counting.

           While Harry went to walk his sister and mum out to their car, Fionn hung back with his own mum in the kitchen. She didn’t have to drive as far as Anna and Gemma did, and he asked her to stay for tea—only because he missed her and not at all because he wanted to avoid continuing his fight with Harry in private.

            “We’re out of milk,” he said as he peered into their fridge, “but I have cream and that’s not too different, right—?“

            “Darling, enough with the tea,” Mum said, “and hurry and tell me why you and Harry are fighting.”

            He sighed, shutting the fridge. “We’re just…working through some things right now.”

            “You shouldn’t bottle it up. Maybe if you talked to him—“

            “Mum, how am I supposed to just say to him that he’s messy as hell—“ He trailed off as Mum’s eyes widened, fixed on something over his shoulder. “Oh no.”

            “That’s real nice, Fionn,” Harry said, his tone even. He turned to Mum, whose face was a familiar shade of pink. “Linda, it was lovely to see you as always. I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be excusing myself early tonight.”

            “Of course, darling,” Mum said weakly. “Thank you for the flowers.”

            Harry kissed her cheek. “That’s alright. Goodnight.”

            He didn’t even look at Fionn as he walked back out of the kitchen.

            “I should—I should probably fix that,” he said, running his shaky fingers through his hair. Fucking hell, he was an idiot.

            Mum’s smiled sympathetically, patting his arm. “I’ll let myself out. Goodnight.”

            “Sorry about…all of this,” he said, gesturing to the room, as if it was somehow responsible for this mess.

            “It’s fine,” she said. “Couples fight, darling. I know you’ll fix it.”

            It took nearly twenty minutes, but he ended up finding Harry on the roof, purely by coincidence. He had walked by the spare room to find it ajar. When he peaked in, he saw that the window was opened, something that Harry was adamant against since he was constantly falling victim to the elements. Their hallway bathroom was filled with medicine that didn’t fit in their bathroom with Harry’s skincare supplies already in their cabinets.

            He tugged the window open more and crawled out, his shoes slipping against the roofing. Harry didn’t turn towards him, nor did he reach out to help him, and that’s when he knew he had well fucked up.

            “I’m sorry. I should have told you why I was mad instead of talking about you to my mum,” Fionn said. When Harry didn’t acknowledge him, he added a little desperately, “Harry, please.”

            “You know what people said when I posted that picture of you last year?” Harry asked quietly. “They said you’d break my heart. I didn’t think much about it then, but it’s all I think about now.”

            His heart sunk.

            “I should’ve talked to you earlier,” Fionn said. “Don’t pull away. Please. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

            Harry shook his head, rubbing his hand along his jaw like he did when he was frustrated. “I love you, Fionn. You know that I do. I just—I didn’t want tonight to feel like this. I wanted it to be different.”

            “We’ll have them over again. It’ll be fine—“

            “It’s not that. Mum and Gemma love Linda.”

            “Then what is it? That’s all you’ve been worried about these past few—“

            Harry turned to him abruptly, his expression gravely serious. “Have you ever thought about the future?”

            “I mean, how far ahead are you talking about?” he asked. “I have contracts for the next three years if that’s what you mean.”

            “I didn’t mean work,” Harry said, sighing. He turned away from him again, tucking his knees up to his chest. He looked so small, like a boy, and a little lost. Fionn was suddenly reminded of an earlier worry.

            “Let’s talk about work for a second actually,” Fionn said, straightening up. “Why aren’t _you_ working, Harry? You’ve been home for months without planning anything at all. That’s not like you. Why won’t you talk to me about what’s wrong?”

            Harry’s jaw tensed. “Why do you automatically assume something’s _wrong_?”

            “What else am I supposed to think?” Fionn demanded. “You’re not talking to me!”

            “It’s like the weirdest reverse déjà vu right now,” Harry laughed humorlessly. “Do you really want to know why I haven’t gone back to work?”

            “That’s why I asked, isn’t it?”

            “I haven’t gone back to work because I’ve been busy trying to figure out what I want,” Harry said flatly. “Not acting, not music. What I want with my _life_. I was gone for months on tour—a tour that I was dying to go on—only to spend each and every day wishing it was all over so I could come home to you.”

            “Harry, you know I missed you, too,” Fionn said.

            “I don’t want to leave again without knowing that it’s not all going to be fucked when I come home,” Harry said. Sighing again, he leaned back so he could reach into his front pocket. His hand was closed into a fist as he held it out to Fionn. “Hold out your hand.”

            Fionn did as he was told, and Harry twisted Fionn’s hand palm side up before dropping whatever he pulled out of his pocket into it. Fionn stared at Harry for a moment before opening his hand and looking down.

            A ring—twin, pale gold bands that crisscrossed around delicately—sat in his hand, staring up at him mockingly. His breath caught in his throat. “Harry.”

            “I know,” Harry said. “It’s too soon. You’re only 21. Trust me, I know, Fionn.”

            Fionn couldn’t stop looking at the ring. He lifted his eyes to Harry’s, his brows furrowed. “When—“

            “When I was in Paris,” Harry told him.

            Fionn looked back at the ring that still sat in his palm, the light from inside the house catching it when he moved his hand. “It’s just—we’ve spent the majority of our relationship apart.”

            “I know,” Harry repeated. “You don’t think I’ve been thinking about that?”

            “Well you’ve had a lot more time to wrap your mind around this than I have,” Fionn said defensively.

            Harry cut his eyes to him. “I’m not proposing right this second, love. I’d like to think I’m a little more romantic than that.”

            “You are,” Fionn said, and despite everything, he had to fight back a smile. While Harry was on tour, because of how hard it was to call and text with their schedules, Harry started writing him letters. _Like in the war_ , Harry told him the night before he left for the second leg. Sometimes he’d write him snippets of songs he wrote for Fionn, and sometimes he’d send a piece of clothing he’d been wearing so Fionn would have something that smelled like him.

           When Fionn shivered from the cold, Harry scooted closer and wrapped his arm around his waist, tugging him into him. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I need reassurance, Fionn, that I’m not alone in this. That’s all.”

           “I know,” Fionn said softly. “Maybe. I think…one day.”

           “Okay,” he said, reaching over to take the ring from Fionn’s hand. He pressed his lips to the side of Fionn’s head, and Fionn knew then that they were okay again. “I can do one day.”

 

* * *

 

_2019_

 

            Fionn was sat in one of those uncomfortable director’s chairs that always seemed to be used at these things, his knee bouncing as he waited for the next reporter to come out of the room they kept them all in. Next to him, his costar Andrew, who was the rookie on the set, flipped through an app on his phone. Fionn recalled when he was on the press tour for _his_ first film. It felt like ages ago, when really only two years had passed.

            He felt himself smile. Harry was there with him on that press tour.

            Andrew lifted his head and frowned at Fionn. “Why are you smiling like that?”

            “Nothing. I just remembered something,” Fionn said, rearranging his features to a more neutral expression. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Andrew; he was a nice enough lad who was good at what he did and a good person to work with. It was just—he didn’t connect with Andrew like he did Tom, Barry, and Jack. He couldn’t even imagine connecting with Andrew like he connected with Harry, nor did he want to.

            A few more minutes went by before the next reporter came in—a balding man with a Spiderman shirt that didn’t at all seem appropriate to interview actors for a movie like this, and Fionn hoped that he didn’t plan on asking them what their superpower would be.

           As the man took a seat across from them, Fionn leaned forward and offered his hand. “You alright?”

          “Yeah, thanks,” the man said with a grin as he shook it. “Fionn, Andrew, it’s a pleasure. I’m Billy from Movie News Now. Fionn, I’ve been following your career since HIM; I wanted to ask, how does it feel to have Oscar buzz around this role?”

          “It’s extremely humbling,” Fionn said automatically. It hasn’t been the first time he’s been asked that question, and he was prepared for it now. When it all kicked off, Tom was the one to send him a link to the first article talking about it. “This was a great part to play, and I feel incredibly lucky to have been apart of such a brilliant film.”

          “And has Harry seen it? What does he think?”

          “He, um—yeah, he’s seen it,” Fionn said, fighting back a frown. Up until now, questions about Harry were kept to a minimum, which was why he didn’t feel the need to ban him. “He liked it, but he’s a fan of Wes’ so he was biased.”

          “Of course,” Billy said with a small smile. His eyes lingered on Fionn for an uncomfortable second before he turned to his costar, “Andrew, what was the process like to get ready for a role of this magnitude?“

          For the rest of the interview, Fionn only gave half arsed responses and let Andrew take the helm, which he didn’t have to do this press tour up until now. Maddie, his publicist for today, was trying and failing to get his attention, more than likely to ask if he wanted her to pull the plug on the whole thing. Despite whatever shite he was trying to pull, Fionn didn’t want Billy to lose the rest of his interview time. One thing he learned from Harry was to know when something would make an even bigger headline; the last thing he wanted (or needed) was the words “FIONN WHITEHEAD THROWS A FIT OVER HARRY QUESTION” out there in the world.

        He sat in the back of the car in silence as he was driven back to the hotel they were staying in. Maddie gave his phone back to him after the interview, and he texted Harry telling him what happened. He didn’t expect a response; while he was in LA for press, Harry was back at home in London and was more than likely asleep already since he hadn’t texted him in a while. Once again, it was an odd role reversal for them, and Fionn couldn’t help but wish that Harry were there with him.

       His phone buzzed in his lap as the hotel came into view, and Fionn looked down as three more messages came in.

 

 **Tom** : Mate.

 **Tom** : Google your name.

 **Tom** : Seriously.

 **Tom** : And then tell me when and how you proposed.

 

        The driver pulled up to the valet station, and Fionn slowly lowered his phone. Outside, a group of photographers were already lined up, trying to peer into the car. He told himself that they weren’t there for him, but he didn’t need to Google his name to know that he was wrong.

         “Um, is there any way that we could go around the back?” Fionn asked the driver.

         The man looked up at Fionn in the rearview mirror. “I’ll have to call the staff and let them know—“

         “No, it’s fine,” Fionn said, shaking his head. He unbuckled himself. “I’ll just, uh, get out.”

         “Did you want help getting inside?”

         “That’s alright. Thank you. Have a good day.”

         He grabbed his jean jacket from the bench seat and pushed open the door. As soon as his foot touched the concrete, he was immediately swarmed by bodies pushing against him. He stumbled back against the car door, caught off guard by one pap that was a lot closer than he expected.

        “Fionn!”

        “How long are you in LA for?”

        “Where’s Harry?”

        “Did you really propose on the London Eye?”

        “When’s the wedding?”

         Fionn kept his head down and pushed his way through the crowd, which was now peppered with fans screaming his name. There used to be a time where this alone would send Fionn into a tailspin, where he’d have to spend hours locked in his room to decompress. Now, however, he was too used to this kind of chaos. Right after Harry and he went public with their relationship, he was accosted in Tesco when he was trying to decide which pasta he wanted to buy. According to Jack, his choice—linguini—was posted on Twitter and fans were trying to decide if that meant something.

       The doorman met him halfway and expertly helped him through the doors. After thanking his maroon clad savior, Fionn went straight to the elevators, ignoring the people in the lobby who were staring openly at him like he was some sort of wild animal. He waited until he was safely inside in his own room before he dialed Tom’s number and sat on the bed.

      “Fionn, I’m never going to forgive you for not telling me—“

      “I didn’t propose,” Fionn said, pulling his laptop onto his lap with his free hand. He opened it and quickly punched in his password—Lewis97—with one finger. “I’m on my computer now.”

      “Are you searching your name?”

      “I’m searching Harry’s name.”

      “Why Harry?”

      “I want a picture—ah.” He leaned against the headboard, staring at the pictures of his boyfriend walking their puppy down their street. He was wearing his jersey shorts and the boots Fionn hated, talking on the phone while Lewis sniffed at a tree. Another picture was a zoomed in shot of Harry’s chest—where a ring dangled from a chain over his Hot N Hard shirt.

      Fionn’s ring.

      “So why is he wearing a ring around his neck all of a sudden?” Tom asked.

      Fionn clicked on an article that apparently had all of the details of their Tuscan wedding. “I didn’t know that he was.”

      “Wait, so you don’t know where it came from?”

      “I didn’t say that. I just didn’t know he started wearing it.”

      “Then what the hell is it, Fionn?”

      “He got it earlier this year.”

      “And you’re not engaged?”

      “No. He showed me a ring last year, but we’re not engaged.”

      “Why the hell not?”

      “Because I’m only 22, Tom. We’re not there yet.”

      Tom scoffed. “You’re in love with him.”

      “So that means I have to marry him right now?” Fionn asked. “We’re both so busy. He’s been in the studio for the past five months, and I’ve been out of town for most of it. It’s not the right time.”

     “Do you ever want to marry him?”

     “I’m not talking to you about this. Why are you even awake?”

     “My Fionn senses were tingling,” he deadpanned. “Fine. The second you’re back in town, I’m coming over though. Goodnight.”

     “Goodnight,” Fionn said before ending the call and dropping the phone on the bed. He wanted to call Harry, but he didn’t want to wake him up. For the past few weeks, he’d been having trouble sleeping, and Fionn wasn’t going to disturb him if he was getting a few hours in.

     He closed the lid of his laptop and set it down on the nightstand before tugging at the chain that was tucked under his jumper. The crisscrossed ring dangled at the end.

     Harry’s ring.

     It was Harry’s birthday that he gave him the ring in the picture. Platinum, to match the rest of his many rings, but it was the only one he didn’t wear on his fingers. He saw it in New York and asked his manager’s intern to buy it for him while he was doing an interview with Good Morning America. There was a second that he was afraid Harry would misinterpret it, but he understood exactly what Fionn was trying to do. Reassurance was all Harry asked for. That One Day was more than just a way to end a fight. The only way Fionn could think to show him that he meant it was doing for Harry what Harry did for Fionn.

     Even that couldn’t be sacred though. Nothing was, especially not in his own relationship.

     “Fuck it,” he said, reaching for his phone. Harry could take a nap tomorrow before he went into the studio. Hell, he could take a nap while he was in the studio. He hit his caller ID and brought the phone to his ear, waiting.

     “’Lo?” Harry greeted softly, nearly whispering.

     Fionn’s shoulders immediately loosened at the sound of his voice. “Hi. Did I wake you?”

     “No, it’s fine. Everything alright?”

     “Have you seen the pictures?”

     “What pictures?”

     If there was anyone less aware of what the media said about him than Fionn, it was Harry. “A couple photographers caught you walking Lewis. They saw the ring.”

    “Are you upset?” Harry asked, sounding far away, like he was holding the phone away from his mouth.

     Fionn’s forehead creased. “I, uh—no, not with you. You couldn’t have known. Are you doing something?”

      “Not yet,” Harry said. There was a pause and then, “Could you open the door?”

      He sat up. “I’m sorry?”

      “Love, open the door.”

      Fionn dropped his phone and scrambled out of bed, tripping over one of his bags. He nearly slammed into the door but caught himself with the handle, pulling open the door. Standing in the hallway looking sleepy and perfect was Harry, still holding his phone to his ear.

      “You’re here,” Fionn said as Harry hung up.

      His face broke into a wide smile that seemed to light him up from the inside, the one that Fionn loved most. “I flew in as soon as I realized they were taking my picture. I wanted to be with you.”

      Fionn wrapped his arms around his waist, burying his face in Harry’s neck. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

      “I told you we’d do this together,” Harry said, kissing the top of his head. “I missed you, Fionn.”

      And it was the way that Harry said his name—like a caress, dipped in affection and filled with love. No one said Fionn’s name like Harry did. No one made Fionn feel the way Harry did when he said his name.

      Fionn curled his fingers into the lapels of Harry’s coat and pulled him into his room, letting the door click shut behind them. Harry chuckled against Fionn’s mouth as he dropped his bag and allowed Fionn to tug off his coat. They fell into the king sized bed that felt too big for just Fionn, and Harry slid Fionn’s jumper over his head. His fingers lingered along Fionn’s skin, tracing the small letter Fionn tattooed over his heart earlier that year—a ‘t’ for his father.

      Harry pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone while Fionn worked on unbuckling Harry’s belt. They continued to undress each other one article of clothing at a time, taking their time with one another. When they were both in nothing but their pants, Harry wrapped one arm around Fionn’s waist and lifted him up along the bed until his head rested on the pillows. He groaned when Harry palmed his growing erection.

      Harry ran his tongue along the waistband of Fionn’s pants. The cool metal of Harry’s ring pressed into Fionn’s leg as Harry slowly started to pull off Fionn’s pants, his mouth following the movements. He took Fionn in his mouth and started to move his head up and down, letting his teeth graze the shaft of his cock. Another groan escaped Fionn’s mouth, needy and wanting. When Harry cupped his balls in one hand as the other started to pump the bottom of Fionn’s shaft, his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

      Before he could finish in Harry’s mouth, he tugged at the curls at the top of Harry’s head. “ _Harry_ , I’m going to finish.”

      Harry sat back, licking his lips. “Isn’t that the point?”

     “Not yet—“ Fionn gasped when Harry reached around and cupped Fionn’s arse in his hands, pulling him back into him. He ground his pelvis against Fionn’s, and both boys groaned together at the friction. Harry hitched one of Fionn’s legs up, letting his fingers trail up and down the back of Fionn’s thigh. He shivered, and Harry tightened his grip on Fionn’s leg.

     “I missed you,” he breathed before kissing Fionn, their mouths working against one another’s greedily. “ _God_ , I missed you.”

      “I can tell." To further prove his point, he reached between them and grasped Harry’s dick in his hand. Harry groaned as Fionn moved his hand down his shaft. He kissed him harder, warmth radiating off of his body.

      They rolled around, wrestling to gain dominance—not because they wanted to be on top more than the other, but because they wanted to control the other’s pleasure. It’s always been that way between them, a side effect of their constant need to be touching in someway. Their relationship was so grounded in this physical connection between them, and one of the main ways they showed affection was this way. Fionn used to waste so much time worrying that it was unhealthy, but there was nothing unhealthy about the way he felt for Harry. Not anymore.

      Harry ended up under Fionn, snacking his arms around Fionn’s neck. Fionn turned his head and pressed a kiss to Harry’s bicep, where the anatomical heart was. When Fionn got his tattoo done, Harry tattooed a small ‘f’ in the heart, hidden between the veins and arteries.

      As he started to roll off Harry’s pants, Harry lifted his bum a little to make it easier for him. He gazed up at Fionn with a sleepy smile, and Fionn’s heart squeezed. It was a rare privilege to see Harry this way. He loved every version of Harry—Cheeky Harry, Performer Harry, Tender Harry, Cozy Harry—but there was something beautiful about Vulnerable Harry.

      He bent down and kissed him softly. Brushed his hand across his cheek. “I love you.”

      Harry turned his face into Fionn’s hand, kissing the inside of his palm. “I love you more.”

      “Not possible. Condom?”

      “Oof. I can’t handle all the romance, baby,” Harry said, fighting back a smirk. “In my jean pocket.”

       After retrieving the condom from Harry’s jeans on the floor, Harry helped him roll it onto his erection before turning over onto his stomach. Fionn urged him to arch his back and used his knee to nudge Harry’s apart a little further. He reached around Harry until his fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock, his front curved around Harry’s back. Harry arched into him more as Fionn stroked him.

       “Fuck,” Harry breathed. “Fuck, fuck—“

        Fionn moved back, earning a groan of protest from Harry, and teased his cock along Harry’s arse. Up and down, making Harry unravel a little bit more. He slid a finger inside, gently moving in and out. Harry jerked, and Fionn gripped Harry’s waist with his free hand, keeping him still. He slipped another finger in, and Harry practically convulsed under him. He pressed a kiss to the base of Harry’s spine before he replaced his fingers with his cock, slowly easing himself inside of Harry. Pleasure rocked through him at the tightness, and he clenched his teeth as he paused, giving Harry time to adjust.

       “Okay?” he whispered.

       “Yeah,” Harry panted, nodding enthusiastically.

        Fionn rocked his body against Harry’s, gripping his waist as he moved in and out of him, gradually picking up the pace. Harry’s hands fisted the sheet. Their moans filled the room as they found a rhythm, their bodies knowing instinctively how much the other could handle. Harry bucked back into Fionn, who reached around him again for his cock, stroking him while he chased his own release. They climaxed together, calling out the other’s name, and Fionn’s heart threatened to burst inside his chest.

        After, Harry spooned Fionn with one arm draped over his waist. He kissed Fionn’s bare shoulder. “Have I told you how much I like it when you’re on top?”

       Fionn’s mouth curled into a smile. “Once or twice.”

       “I wish you could come back with me.”

       “Me too.”

       “Maybe we can fit you in my bag. I’ll pay the upcharge for heavier luggage.”

       “Why am I always the one getting stuffed into luggage?”

        Harry chuckled as his finger traced the outline of his ring that hung from Fionn’s neck. “Do you ever think we’ll be in the same place together for longer than a few months?”

        “Maybe.” Deep down, he knew that that could only be possibly if one of them stopped what they loved. “We’ll figure it out.”

        Harry wrapped his arm tighter around him. “One day?”

        Fionn turned in his arms, cupping Harry’s face in his hands. He brushed his nose against Harry’s. “Yeah. One day.”

 

* * *

 

_2020_

 

            The water licked at his ankles as he walked along the shoreline. Ahead of him, Harry was jogging with Lewis on the lead. They’ve been in Malibu for nearly a week now, staying in a house they were renting for the rest of the month. Harry was recording the last few songs for his second album, and Fionn carved out time in his schedule to be there with him. Three years passed since he first dropped his solo album, and he’s finished two tours and filmed another movie since then, but this was what it was always going to lead back to.

            Harry turned and started jogging backwards, smiling wildly at Fionn as he waved. “Go to Daddy, Lewis,” Fionn heard him call out before letting go of Lewis’ lead.

            He crouched down and held his arms out as Lewis raced towards him, his ears flopping against his head as his little legs pumped underneath him. Harry waited until their puppy was in Fionn’s arms before he took off. Fionn kissed the top of Lewis’ head and set him down again, taking hold of his lead before he could chase after Harry. “Let’s go inside and wait for Dad, shall we?”

            Thirty minutes later, Harry found them in the lounge, cuddled under a blanket while they watched an old Game of Thrones episode. He hung his workout top on the back of an armchair before leaning over the back of the couch to kiss Fionn.

            “Hi,” he greeted, kissing Fionn’s nose one more time. “Take a shower with me?”

            Fionn lifted the bowl of popcorn that was between him and the puppy. “Can’t. Very busy.”

            Harry snorted. “You know what I love about you? You want me for me than just my body.”

            He watched as Harry sauntered around the couch, his shorts hanging low on his hips. The muscles in his back flexed, all of his skin naturally tanned from the time out on the beach. “You’re right. I want you for your snacks.”

            “And that’s why I only wrote eleven songs about you instead of all fourteen.”

            “You did not.”

            Harry arched a brow as he fell onto the couch next to him. “Wanna bet?”

            “Harry,” Fionn said, sitting up straighter. Lewis hopped off the couch and turned his head to glare at them before waddling off to the kitchen. “You _didn’t_.”

            “You’d think you would be used to it by now,” Harry said, his mouth quirking.           Fionn scowled at him. “They better be good.”

            “They are. I wrote one all about the freckle on your—“

            “Enough,” Fionn said, slapping his hands over Harry’s mouth. He could feel Harry’s tongue poke out of his mouth, licking his palm. “You’re a child.”

            “But I love you,” Harry tried to say, but it came out more like, “Rut I rove you.”

            Fionn dropped his hands. “How much?”

            Harry reached out and trailed his fingers along the curve of Fionn’s neck, catching the chain that still hung around it. Carefully, he tugged it from under Fionn’s shirt and held it in front of Fionn’s face. “Enough to marry you.”

            “That’s a lot,” Fionn said, smiling. “Are you sure about that?”

            “Never been more sure of anything. We’re a team, me and you.”

            “Dream team. The banner’s in the garage back home.”

            “I can’t believe I’m going to ask such a dork to marry me,” Harry said, flicking Fionn’s nose.

            He leaned in and kissed the side of Harry’s jaw. “Or maybe _I’ll_ ask you.”

            “Ooh game changer,” Harry said as his grabbed Fionn’s legs and pulled him onto his back. He moved over him, keeping the majority of his weight off of Fionn, as to not squish him. “One day, right?”

            After the whirlwind that was the last couple years, Fionn was glad to be here next to the man that he loved, who had very quickly become home to him. Upstairs, the sheets were in a ball from when they woke up late that afternoon, and Harry’s boots were lying by the front door. In the kitchen, he could smell the pie that Harry was baking, the smell of garlic and oregano and beef wafting into the room.

            There was no one else that Fionn would come to California for; there was no one else Fionn would go _anywhere_ for to be fair. And they were going to be okay. Maybe not every day, maybe not all of the time, but he knew without a doubt that they’d be okay.

            Fionn smoothed Harry’s hair out of his face, his gaze lingering on Harry’s mouth. “One day soon.”

            Harry jerked back. “Soon?”

            “Soon,” Fionn said, nodding. “Is that okay?”

            “Is that okay, he asks,” Harry repeated dryly, but his eyes were bright. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against Fionn’s. “That’s more than okay. That’s all I’ve wanted for a long time.”

            “I’m a little slow to start,” Fionn said, “but I’ll get there eventually.”

            Harry groaned dramatically. “God, I know. It’s a good thing I have the patience of a saint.”

            “I can’t believe I want to spend my life with such a dork,” he said, throwing Harry’s words back at him. It earned him a bite on the side of his neck, making him laugh.

            “Soon,” Harry whispered across his skin as he pressed kisses along his neck, his jaw, finishing with one last kiss on his cheek.

            Fionn wiggled his hands free and held Harry’s face still between his hands. “I’m so glad that I met you, Harry.”

            When the media first started reporting on their relationship, they said that it wouldn’t last more than three months, that Harry was a serial romantic. Every picture was met with scrutiny—was Fionn miserable, did Harry look trapped. Once a week, articles about Harry’s secret affairs outlined how unfaithful Harry’s been to Fionn, even when Harry spent said week locked in the house with Fionn, eating pints of ice cream and having sex in their atrium at night because Harry thought it was more romantic under the stars.

            Years ago, Fionn remembered that calmness that came from being in Harry’s presence. He didn’t realize it then, but he had always felt right when he was with him. This was his person. Both of them have come a long way in those three years. He no longer felt like Harry would disappear if he turned around, and he didn’t feel that urge to beat him to the punch before he could. No matter what he did in his life, what he accomplished or experienced, nothing would ever mean more to him that the life he built with Harry. He wasn’t going anywhere. He felt settled. Happy.

            They both were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this because of how much I loved seeing these boys interact during promo, especially seeing how unimpressed Fionn seemed to be with Harry sometimes. With every chapter I wrote, I became more and more attached to my versions of Fionn and Harry, and I can honestly say I’ve never written anything this consistently and all the way through like I have. Technically, the story could be finished with Chapter Ten, but I wanted to write something a little fluffy, a little self-indulgent. 
> 
> I also just really wanted to give these two a happy ending considering how much I put them through. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for sticking with this story, and for every single lovely comment that you’ve left me here and on my Tumblr. This isn’t the last thing I’ll write about all of these Dunkirk boys, and I hope you guys enjoy what’s to come just as much as you've enjoyed this.


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